The Soul is Dead That Slumbers
by Amberlin
Summary: Newly revised and no COMPLETE.Used to be In Her Beauty. I'm starting over and fleshing it out. in the 1920's Watson comes across the memoirs of his friend, which brings to the fore an old case with more under the surface than Watson previously thought.
1. Chapter 1

I've decided to start this story over to flesh it out and generally make it better and longer. I would love constructive criticism about my writings. Thanks!


	2. Watson's notes

_The Soul Is Dead That Slumbers_

ﭏ

I really feel I must sincerely apologize to my audience in advance. I am fully aware that many a reader has looked forward to an additional memoir from me with hopeful heart and bated breath. Many have waited in anticipation to read of my good friend's many unusual and exciting cases. In this dark year, I sympathize with those nostalgic souls who earn for the noble chase; to lose themselves in the right cause of a man whose character and intentions spoke of a higher calling - of the spirit of England and the preservation of all that was right and balanced in the world. My dear friend was that man, and the longing of those who desire to peer into his life once more is only a tiny proportion to the longing I myself feel to ride alongside him once again and to chronicle his works and thoughts. But alas, that prospect has passed. My closest friend has left me to my own devices; with my own lonely thoughts and I shall never again play the great game with him. I had always envisioned my passing to precede his - there was something immortal in the very bearing of the detective. I truly believed he would outlive me. But it seemed that even the illustrious and eternal figure of my companion was not immune to the ravages of life and tragedy. A part of me passed with him upon receiving that unsteadily scribbled telegraph from Mrs. Hudson that bright afternoon.

But I digress.

I feel it my duty to explain the following narrative, which, as you will soon discover, differs vastly from our usual adventures together. First I am obliged to explain how I came to possess the parts of this manuscript that are not penned from my hand. It was a few months ago in this year, 1937, that I received a curious package, addressed from a person that I had spent a short amount of time with during a period of my lodging with Holmes, though their presence made a great impression on me. It was a brief letter, which I will lay out for you plainly and a small leather-bound book that I soon found was the sporadic and inconsistent journal of my good friend, worn and aged, sketching the shadowy areas of his life before I knew him and before the world had mounted him as a hero.

After reading and digesting the meat of the letter, I went on to read the personal diary of the great detective, plunging into his private thoughts and early life. I felt no guilt at this, considering that Holmes had passed on a few years prior, as mentioned before, leaving me to mourn his loss. I felt, perhaps foolishly, that this sudden boon was a way to once again connect with my lost companion, that man that had so many times pulled me from my own solitude and filled my life with purpose.

Before I commence with the weighty task of relating the substantial amount of information opened to me in the pages of that small, leather-bound book, I must inform you that accompanying the letter and volume was also a few pages of narrative, penned by the sender during the small time I knew her and corresponding to my own notes of the case she brought to Holmes' attention that snowy winter of 1887.

I read and read, and then I read all the words once again; shocked by these things I was learning about my friend, about the things that were taking place under my very nose without my awareness. Holmes had, on many occasions, good-naturedly jested about my observational abilities, even once comparing me to a blind horse in closed stall. I never felt more keenly the truth of his words as I did at the moment the truth was opened to me in those pages of notes and journal entries.

I pondered for weeks, wondering what to do with my information; with all the notes and writings that I now had on hand.

In the end, I resolved to do the one thing that came naturally to me; the one talent that even Holmes (despite his pithy comments to the contrary) had to grant me credit for – I sat down and began to write. There were many accounts and feelings, though, that were of too delicate a nature to disclose out of respect for the reputation that Holmes had worked so very hard to accumulate about himself. Had he been alive, he would never have forgiven me for single-handedly using his own words to tear down that stoic public image that he lived and survived behind. My own eyes had never been fully blinded to the truth of who he really was - of what depth of feeling he was capable of - but I knew, that for some elusive reason, it was imperative for him to maintain his undemonstrative façade and I in no way would deprive pleasure from denying him this, even posthumous. I had to shift through the pages I had been so courteously provided with in order to put these things into a rational and understandable order without in any way sullying the great and pure character of my companion of many memorable years.

I fear greatly that I have not succeeded in any satisfactory manner; at least, I feel I have not done the sensitive account its due justice but I argue that I must be given leeway. It was, to put it at its mildest, a daunting task to write of Holmes in these unfamiliar terms; a man I had known for almost forty years but apparently did not know much about; having been shielded from his innermost thoughts and experiences. He was a master at disguises, and I now cannot help indulging in the traitorous thought that perhaps the persona of Holmes himself - Holmes the detective, Holmes the lodging-mate - was in and of itself a disguise. Perhaps he _lived_ his art; perhaps his life was merely a performance for the benefit of all who might wonder about him, including me. It took all my will to push such a dispiriting idea into the recesses of my mind.

But I fear I am boring you, my dear reader, with such trite details. I will commence with the narrative.

The letter I was so fortunate to receive ran precisely this way:

**My dear Dr. John H. Watson,**

**I am not presumptuous enough to assume that you would remember me, I realize it has been a great while since the day I met you and since the end of our brief time together. The few letters we have shared over the years tapered off over a decade ago, and I realize that even those were never of such a very personal nature. Perhaps this is the best time to offer you a long overdue apology for my abrupt departure and my oversight in saying goodbye to you. Your company was a bright spot in those dreadful weeks I spent with you and I fear I never adequately expressed this to you in a manner deserved. If you recall, I was close to your good friend and one-time roommate and came to him with a case of small interest during the 1880's, back when we were all still young and full of life. **

**My memory is not all that it once was, but I distinctly remember that I told you once in passing that my mother had died of a weak heart and it would seem that I have had the great misfortune to inherit her rare and fatal infirmity. It is for this reason that I have finally decided to write to you at this time. I fear I do not have much time remaining to live - I feel at this moment the approach of that last sudden and laborious heartbeat - and wish for you to have these few things that may be of the greatest interest to you, seeing as you were arguably the closest friend to my remote stepbrother. I trust you will do what you see fit with them out of sincere love and resolute respect for your departed friend. I would trust no one more with these delicate matters than you, doctor, and I feel a weight lifting even at this moment that these things are now all in your hands. **

**My only request, a small one at that, is simply that I beg of you to wait patiently until I have passed peacefully from this present world before you take steps to make these truths public and open to that eager audience that I know awaits, granted that you choose to do so. I leave the decision up to your capable and trustworthy judgment.**

**Very sincerely and eternally yours, **

**Lillian Josephine Holmes. **

Herein is the narrative as I have decided to organize it, to the best of my discretion and in a manner, hopefully, painless to follow and understand.


	3. The Start

**From the notes of John H. Watson**

**ض**

In was in the midst of the brisk and gloomy February of the year 1887 that Holmes and I were presented with an important case of the most singular interest. Not because of any peculiarity of the actual problem offered to us- in fact, Holmes did not even regard it as a case. He kept no clear notes or records of it in his many overflowing scrapbooks that he used to document his accomplishments in his own peculiar and incomprehensible system of organization. It was a petty problem at its very core, once we were finally able to shift and sort through the messy surface. It was ordinary; a matter with which my good companion would not normally sully his eminent hands with. He usually refused to run with such little information and I'd seen him turn away clients with far more to tell him because he saw no real trouble behind their stories.

But this particular complainant was someone Holmes could not turn away, though I could see that his first inclination was to distance himself as much as he could from the threat that presented itself at our doorstep.

The previous year had crawled by in a painfully uneventful manner. My brilliant friend solved only a handful of cases in the slow fading of winter of 1886. He had, to my abject horror and dismay, once again resorted to his terrible but dependable drugs to divert his attention as work became excruciatingly sparse. Holmes would hand out a pittance of clues to the (as he described the whole lot) incompetent and bumbling police force, mostly from the comfort of his sitting room in the few moments of drug-free mental clarity. But nothing that occurred I considering worth making any notes of, and I strongly suspected that once the heavy booted tread of the policemen had faded from our stairway, Holmes himself would not have been in the frame of mind to recall what the issue was about or what clues and advice he dealt out to them - at least, not in a clear enough manner to be of any cohesive interest to readers.

To be completely honest, I avoided keeping any records of those precarious days out of a desire to avoid confronting the very truth of my friends' obsession; of his deep need for stimulus to stave off mental danger and depression. I desperately held to the hope that soon work would pick up and the whole period could be forgotten and pushed to relative safety of the past, where it belonged. But even without written records, I will never forget that year and the manner in which Holmes spent his days lamenting the decline of the use of imagination in crime while injecting himself with his usual 7-percent solution, much to my alarm.

So I must admit that I was pleased, I daresay _overjoyed_, when we received an unexpected visitor that early snowy morning. The long overdue sound of fresh footsteps, those not belonging to my morose roommate or the impertinent police force, quickened my heart with the prospect of much needed occupation and distraction. A slight and petite woman was shown up to our rooms, casting her pretty green eyes about the messy and well lived in space as if weary of something lurking all about her.

My reputed roommate was not presently at home, having briefly run to Scotland Yard to help them with one of their petty and inconsequential problems. He had assured me before departing that he would be returning home shortly, and seeing as he was in one of those dark moods that prevented him from having the energy to do anything requiring extra effort, I knew that he would not be running any superfluous errands. Therefore I acquiesced when Mrs. Hudson asked if I wanted her to show the visitor up.

Our dependable and empathetic landlady seemed appropriately worried about the strange girl, and the Scotswomen took to hovering in the doorway. I could hardly find room to blame her; the young woman was shaking most violently, her teeth chattering noisily in her small mouth. She couldn't manage to speak for some time through her shivers, and stood rubbing her bare hands together.

I discarded the early morning paper I was half-heartedly reading and rushed to her, my doctor instincts suddenly on alert to her obvious physical discomfort. I took her hands in mine; prepared to ask her if she needed a physician to look her over and was startled by how very cold she was. Her skin was like ice, tinted slightly blue and probably numb.

"Good heavens, my dear lady! You're freezing!" I rubbed her hands vigorously between my own, trying to draw up warmth. She endured my ministrations without complaint or objection.

"Yes indeed I am," she managed, at length, to spurt out, her words jerky and irregular due to the pronounced shivers that were rattling her small frame, "I do seem to have forgotten my winter gloves, haven't I?" She forced a small and weak smile, making light of her own absentmindedness.

Mrs. Hudson took control of the situation and hurried the lovely girl into the kitchen to dip her fingers in hot water to heat her up a bit. I followed along, still encasing her small palms in my own to shield her from the drafty air that seeped every season into our usually cozy rooms. I wondered about the strange woman who had ventured outdoors to pay a call to my friend in this dismal weather with no gloves or hat.

Pouring some steamy water from the recently brewed teakettle on the range into an oval serving bowl, my estimable landlady fetched a linen dishtowel and authoritatively, but not without a note of kindness and concern, bid our young visitor to sit at the kitchen table.

"If you would be good enough to put your hands in there, sweetheart, the water should warm you up soon enough." The older woman prodded firmly and the girl complied, dipping her fingers slowly and cautiously into the bowl.

"I'm sure you're fully aware, my dear," I reprimanded the lady with kindness, "that it really is an unwise decision, to say the very least, to go out into the cold weather, such as this, with your head and hands uncovered so. You'll be sure to catch your death of cold before you can even step off your front porch."

She blushed in the most becoming manner, plunging her hands into the bowl and wiggling her fingers about. She provided no excuse for her odd behavior.

"What's your name, my dear?" Mrs. Hudson inquired softly, feeling all over the girl's face to gauge her temperature and to be sure her heat was returning to her body.

"Lillian . . ." She trailed off and hesitated noticeably, "Lillian Josephine Holmes."

The landlady and I merely stared at her for an uncomfortable moment, trying to connect the various dots in our minds. Finally, at length, I gathered my wits enough to speak, "I don't mean to be too forward, but may I ask if there is any relation to my roommate?"

Her mouth quirked into an ironic smile, and for the first time since she'd been under our roof, I saw a glimmer of fire in her eyes, "Only that I'm his sister."

"What in god's name do you mean?" I exclaimed without thinking. I smiled quickly after my outburst, putting a hand over my heart in a gesture of regret. "Excuse my rudeness, but Holmes never mentioned a sister."

"Oh, is that so?" She asked, a tight undercurrent running through her cultured voice, "Yes, well…I suppose he wouldn't." She dismissed with a valiant effort to look blithe about the whole thing. She took the hand rag from Mrs. Hudson and began toweling off her slender fingers.

Mrs. Hudson fetched another linen to help sop up the excess water from around the table, taking a moment to look pointedly at me and at my careless remark. "Would you be so kind to take the tea platter up to the sitting room and wait there, doctor, as I help her clean up a bit?"

I did as she asked without balking and as I was waiting dutifully in the sitting room, I heard the door open and close loudly. The rough rustling of Holmes disposing of his coat onto the hall rack was an unmistakably familiar sound. I settled the serving dish onto the bare breakfast table and left the room hurriedly, stopping to stand at the top of the stairs as he ascended, waiting to see if that sharp eye of his could detect that we had a visitor before I informed him of it.

"Those damned Scotland Yarders wouldn't know how to identify a criminal even if one walked right into the station and committed a crime in front of them. I feel like I'm working with a group of easily distracted puppies. Toby can sense a clue quicker than those inept flatfoots. I'm growing tired of their constant summonses. Soon I'll be receiving telegraphs asking for advice in finding lost pencils or picking out a nice cravat." He was speaking to himself as much as he was speaking to me, adjusting his high collar as he mounted the steps. I could see how aggravated he was by his languid gait; while in high spirits he would normally bound up the steps two at a time like an energetic boy.

I was about to announce to him that he had a visitor, hoping perhaps to brighten his mood a bit, when I saw her step diffidently to the bottom area of the stairs, standing on the small cotton rug that Mrs. Hudson insisted we wipe our feet on before traveling further into the house. She inhaled deeply, as if steeling herself for whatever was going to occur, absently shaking her hands free of the water droplets as she stared up at his back. Almost instantly, the brooding detective stopped mid-stride, one foot on the step above his other. He seemed to know, in that instinctive way of his, that someone was in presence besides simply the two of us. He twisted his neck slowly, glancing cautiously over his shoulder before turning completely and facing our guest directly. His grey eyes caught hers in that unfathomable and unbending gaze he possessed and they were both deathly still, except for the wringing of her nervous hands.

In my many years, I've been privileged to be privy to those rare and extraordinary moments when - like the sudden opening of a blackened window to a caged and incarcerated mind - something small, minute, _subtle_ suddenly grants a staggering glimpse into the depth or truth of a matter you previously thought was already revealed to you. Or, in this case, provides a glimpse into the one person whom you'd had come to believe you knew almost inside and out. The beat of stillness that passed between my friend and this stranger was one of those small things. Nothing moved, save the air and his eyes, glinting like steel; attempting to cut through her, through the space between them, or perhaps through reality itself.

Their lingering pose will always be to me a shadowy sketch of time that they are perennially caught in - that instant will always exist, as real and as tangible as the paper I am writing on; the smooth table top beneath my fingertips, though time and age has blurred it in my mind and distorted it with truth.

Then that paradoxically enduring second dissipated. His eyes closed a moment before fluttering open, his demeanor suddenly suspiciously nonchalant. He moved down the stairs to her with deliberate strides, but didn't reach her before stopping a few steps before the landing, each of his movements cadenced and translated.

She inhaled deeply with each step he took towards her, her breath catching in her throat as he neared. She continued to wring her hands uneasily. For Holmes' part, a small, extremely uncharacteristic, ramble of uncertain noise bubbled forth from him before he regained himself, finally smiling faintly and ushering her up the stairs with a gentle and guiding hand. That blackened window had been closed and securely locked once again and his dependable mask of impassivity was firmly back in place.

I wondered what history they may have shared between them. It went without saying that my friend had lived with this girl, been raised under the same parental hands, shared the same blood with her, but still there was a palpable strain that could be felt as if the very air about them grew heavier. They kept a distance between them even as they mimicked an appearance of cordiality. His guiding hand barely touched her, only grasping her arm enough to let her feel his presence.

Holmes escorted her through the threshold into the cluttered sitting room and began hastily clearing a seat for her in his favorite chair - an action that signaled affection. There had been only a handful of people I'd seen him give such attention to and those instances were of a private enough nature to restrict me from laying them out for the public. They had spoken not a word to each other so far, even in formal greeting, but Holmes, under certain daunting prospects, would sometimes prefer to settle himself before delving into a problem or situation. I could see he was taking this time to gather himself together now, using the task to dispel some of the accumulated tension in his limbs and movements.

She inclined her head in silent thanks, sitting in the chair offered to her and sinking into the shabby but cozy cushion stiffly. Her eyes, which had began to run over her surroundings in that same tense manner as before, finally settled on Holmes and once settled, those intense green orbs never left his face as he sat across from her. He stared back, unperturbed by all appearances, languorously and casually searching through his pockets and pulling a cigarette from his silver, intricately engraved case. He pushed a match into the flames hissing and snapping next to him in the fireplace and lit the end of his fag.

"I see you've been to France." He said at last, extinguishing the match with a few vigorous shakes and tossing the remnant onto the table at his elbow.

Unlike many of our easier to fleece clients, Lillian Holmes did not gasp in amazement or display any signs of astonishment at Holmes seemingly divine premonitions. She needed no glass of brandy or time to recover from her shock. Instead, she merely nodded smartly, one corner of her full lip inching up into an impertinent smirk. She resembled nothing of her brother, but in that one gesture, she seemed to embody him. "So I see its true…" she said simply, "you've made a nice living off those little guesses of yours."

"Guesses?" He responded, his voice a blend of amusement and offense.

"Forgive me," she corrected quickly, smiling fully for the first time, "those little _deductions _of yours."

Holmes inhaled on his cigarette, regarding her through the haze. "Yes, you might even say my whole way of life hinges upon them, not to mention my reputation." He emphasized that last word but she didn't reply. After a moment, he crushed his scarcely smoked cigarette and raised himself from his seat.

"Would you like some tea?" He inquired, turning over a cup and placing it on a saucer for her. She nodded and watched intently as he poured some water over the tealeaves. I noticed they both regarded each other with a thinly veiled fascination borne from absence. They obviously hadn't seen each other in some time, and each movement and action was observed and tucked away as valuable.

She held up a halting hand as he reached for the small honey pot. "Just plain, please. I've grown distasteful of sweet things."

A brief look of confusion passed over my friend's face. "Would you like any milk?" He asked.

"Just a little."

He handed her the cup, gesturing to her bare hands and seating himself back down into the basket chair. "I see you have also grown distasteful of wearing gloves in the cold weather. Can I presume from that that you are now living somewhere in the warm regions of southern France?"

She glanced down at her hands self-consciously. "Yes, in my defense I was in great haste to come here to see you. There's no need for any concerned lecture, Sherlock," she headed him off from any comment, "I have already received a just and fair warning from your good friend the doctor here." She inclined her fair head in my direction, looking at me for the first time since entering the sitting room. Holmes also drew his attention to me where I stood by the mantle.

"Watson, why don't you sit down, old man? I'm fairly certain whatever thorny problem my sister has felt need to come to me with is suitable for your ears as well." His grey eyes watched me closely; waiting to see how would react to such unexpected news. I knew then that his usually sharp mind must have been particularly distracted if he had not already deduced that I'd spoken enough to the young lady to know her identity.

She coughed delicately, leaning forward in a mock conspiratorial manner. She smiled at him, a genuine smile that, refreshingly, lasting longer than a brief moment. "I'm afraid I've already spoiled the surprise, Sherlock. If I'd known how much joy I was robbing you of, I would have kept mum about it."

"True, Holmes. I think your skills have gotten a bit rusty from disuse " I jumped in good-naturedly, "the lady's identity was disclosed to me a little while before you arrived."

He had the grace and humour to look a bit shamefaced about his slip, "Well," he snapped jokingly, "sit down then, will you? There's really no need to lurk about."

"Only if the lady doesn't object, Holmes." I demurred pointedly, and looked at the lady for her assent.

She dismissed my protestation with a quick wave of her fingers and gestured me into the chair next to her.

"I'm terribly sorry, doctor, that we did not have the chance to be properly introduced." She apologized to me after I was seated comfortably. She reached out a now warm hand in my direction and waited for me to introduce myself.

"Doctor John Watson." I took her hand gallantly, kissing it lightly in the French fashion, which seemed to surprise her and caused a pleasing blush to spread around her cheeks.

As I raised my head, I confess that I was amused to catch sight of Holmes from the corner of my eye, with a decidedly displeased expression marring his sharp features. She seemed to notice his reaction as well, and gave him a pointedly exasperated look in response.

I feel it safe to say that Lillian Holmes was a highly attractive young woman by conventional standards. She appeared to be, from my guesstimate, about Holmes' age, perhaps thirty, with a solid but feminine figure. The cut of her dress was modest, a pleasant cream with green accents and ribbons, cut low enough to be delightful but never revealing. Her hair was the color of caramelized honey that had been stroked by the sun and her sea green eyes crinkled warmly about the sides when addressing me. The only imperfection she seemed to possess was a long and aged scar that ran down her left cheek, across her neck and disappeared deep into her bodice. Even that flaw, though, did not seem to detract from her warm and natural beauty - a beauty that was not only physical but also seemed to well up from within her. She was hardly waif-like, but despite her pleasant curves, her neck was long and beautifully elegant. Her skin was a pleasing shade of ginger; I could see it was not her natural coloring but had been deepened by a healthy amount of time outdoors. A few charming freckles were stippled across her nose, cheeks and the exposed skin above her neckline.

Holmes let out a dramatic sigh and leaned forward, purposely interrupting our introductions. "Did you come all the way here with a problem, Lily, or did you merely desire to catch up with your negligent brother?" Though his tone was a bit brisk, there was no rudeness to his words, just a sincere request to know why she had appeared at our doorway in such an unusual and unexpected manner.

"I fear that someone has been following me for the past few weeks." She blurted abruptly, appearing as though she were desperate to get the words off her chest. She inhaled deeply once she was done and stared at him expectantly.

"Following you around? Is that so?"

"Yes, it started about a month ago. At least, that was the first time I noticed anything; I do not know how long I was being watched before that. One weekend, I observed someone loitering outside my flat– I live in the south of France now, as you guessed. To be honest, I didn't think anything of it because he was simply idling across the street. I thought perhaps he was waiting for someone. I wasn't bothered at all by this until I saw that same shadowy figure there the next day. Since that time, I can't help but feel as if I have a constant shadow behind me."

"You only _feel_ as if you're being shadowed? Can I presume then that you haven't actually seen anyone?"

"No, no," she corrected hastily, "In fact, I have seen him on a few occasion trailing after me in the marketplaces and sometimes as I run my errands. I have even seen him as I leave my class on the weekdays. He doesn't come near me or accost me in any way, but that doesn't comfort me much; it's terribly frightening to feel so stalked."

"You're currently involved in teaching?"

Miss Holmes seemed a bit distressed by her brother's seeming disregard for the meat of her narrative. She nodded uncertainly, as if she did not understand why her vocation would be the main point of interest for him.

Holmes rubbed a calloused and well-used finger against his chin, appearing to be deep in thought for a moment. "Have you come here alone?" He finally asked.

She shook her head, glancing over at me instinctively as if for help. She looked a bit timid to continue in this vein but she rallied herself and elaborated. "To be accurate, someone hasn't precisely _accompanied_ me here from France because he already lives in London. He rents a flat on Paddington Street. Directly across from that tobacconist . . . the one with the cigars from Turkey." She smiled softly, "I have to admit, he seems disinclined to meet you. Perhaps he's a bit uneasy about the whole thing."

Holmes frowned, suspicion in his eyes. "Forgive my ignorance, but you make it sound as if I'm aware of what 'the whole thing' is precisely. Let's be clear . . .who might this gentleman be?"

I couldn't help but suspect that Holmes was being intentionally dense. It seemed quite clear to me what the situation was, though perhaps it was merely a matter of not seeing what you didn't wish to on Holmes' part.

Even with the teacup in her hands, Lillian Holmes managed to resume her fidgeting. "My fiancé, Michael Church." Her face tensed as if in worried anticipation to Holmes reaction.

The detective merely smiled a faint and, to those who truly knew him, insincere smile and shifted lazily in his seat. "Ah, I see. That makes it all clear now. Well, I suppose congratulations are in due order. May I ask how it came about that you met this gentleman? What exactly does he do? What is he like?" At any other time, I would've merely taken these questions as a brotherly interrogation but there was odd tone to his voice as if his questions about her betrothed did not stem merely from a sense of rightful protectiveness.

She settled her empty teacup on the table near my arm, propping her spoon up against the side and folded her hands in her lap. "Mr. Church is a stockbroker. I chanced to meet him one day while visiting your father, who's an acquaintance of his. We began exchanging letters afterwards."

Holmes lifted an inquisitive eyebrow and then frowned, "How is it your fiancé would know my father?"

"He occasionally attends the church your father teaches at when he is in London. I believe your father invited him to dinner because he'd expressed some special interest in one of his sermons."

Holmes leaned back in his chair, blatantly ignoring my questioning look about their interesting topic of conversation.

"Yes," he began, rolling and lighting another cigarette, "I had heard some gossip that my father had stopped traveling on his many ministries. I have to admit that I was glad to hear that he had settled down to one permanent establishment. His crusades wearied him, though he wouldn't admit it. I actually think he believed it would be sacrilege to confess that carrying out the Lord's work was tiring at all, as if somehow he was expected to possess more endurance the Jesus himself." He smiled a little wistfully and then bestowed her with a searching look, "Do you visit my father very often?"

She opened her mouth but he didn't allow her time to answer when he saw my obvious confusion. He laughed at my expression. "I'm sorry, my dear Watson," he apologized with some barely concealed mirth, "let me elaborate so you are not left in the dark, as you so often are . . . Lillian here is not actually my sister by blood but only by marriage. You see, her mother wedded my father when we were younger."

That important fact would explain their differing appearances and opposite coloring but, to be honest, I was more shocked to hear of his father's profession. The detective would surprise me on many occasions in our time together, never more so than the moment I'd discovered that the impertinent scallywag who bought out from under me the prospective space for my practice was Holmes himself, as a generous wedding gift. But seeing as that would not occur for another year, this revelation presently topped the list.

"You're father is a preacher, Holmes?" I exclaimed.

"Indeed . . ." He cocked his head at me, a smile playing about his lips, "Why do you look so amazed?"

I shrugged, "It wasn't what I was expecting, that's all. Why did you never tell me?"

"I'm sorry, I can't seem to recall that you've ever asked me about my father, Watson." He replied smartly. He turned back to her, "Has your shadow followed you here to England as well?"

"I can't be entirely sure. Simply because you don't see someone, doesn't mean they aren't there. I have not caught sight of him so far. But I don't know my way around this city as well, so as I'm attempting to navigate my way from one place to another without getting hopelessly lost, I may not be paying as much attention as usual. I suppose I could simply have overlooking anyone following me."

"You haven't felt anything since being in London?"

"Well, while I was making my way here, I could swear a carriage was following me, but then it turned a few blocks away so I didn't think anything of it."

"Can you tell me anything about your 'secret admirer'? Have you gotten a good look at him?"

She shook her head, "No, I'm sorry. In fact . . . I realize this may sound peculiar, but I get a different impression each time I feel him; I think he may not be the same person all the time. On various occasions when I've managed to catch sight of a figure, the height differs; sometimes tall, sometimes short."

In my, admittedly less perceptive, mind, this fact would have convinced me even more so that the whole affair was the effect of overactive imagination or a frazzled mentality. But Holmes cocked his dark head, sudden interest twinkling brightly in his eye, "You think that it may be many men that are following you?"

"Yes…is that helpful at all to you?"

"Perhaps. If there were more than one individual involved it would mean that this is no simple stalker who has taken an unhealthy fancy with you. For it to be more men speaks of organization…"

I cut in excitedly, "Are you suggesting a conspiracy?"

Holmes inhaled a few times on his smoke, gazing at the wall thoughtfully. He finally nodded and then leaned forward with barely suppressed eagerness, looking his sister directly in the eye, "Lillian, Is there anything else that we should know that may shed light on this predicament? The most trivial fact may be paramount."

She vacillated noticeably, her eyes growing darker - whether out of worry or anger, I could not tell. She bit the inside her mouth, unblinkingly returning his stare for a moment. Finally, as if gathering herself up with effort, she thrust her hand into her bodice and pulled out a folded letter, which she handed over reluctantly. She didn't release the crumpled paper immediately, holding tightly to it as he grasped the other side. A moment of significance passed between them, all centered on that lone note.

He unfolded it methodically and scanned it before passing it to me without a word. The paper was wrinkled but smoothed out, as if it had been fetched from the rubbish bin and ironed over. It ran this way:

**To my dear daughter, **

**Lillian, I realize that it may be of great surprise to hear from me after so long an absence. I am also painfully aware that this communication may be unwelcome, nay, repugnant to you, even after the passing of so many years. I know that there are some things that even time cannot forgive or forget. But I ardently beg of you to read on before dismissing my words and letting them pass on to a distant memory. You are free to do as you please to this letter afterwards - tear it, burn it - whatever suits you. But please, read on before indulging in your personal indignation. **

**I would like you to know foremost that I have served my term. Due to good behavior and certain favors, I found myself able to avoid prison for life or the docks. Do not fear, Lillian, I have no plans to contact you or intrude in your peaceful life. I was not your father, and I have no desire to take the place of the man who took care of you in a way I was never able. **

**In a way I never wanted to. **

**I treated you dismally, but it was merely because I resented the burdens and responsibilities forced upon me. But I need not make excuses. What is done is done and no explanations can change the opinion of those who view themselves as victims. **

**I know this is not something that you care about, and I know that my words mean very little to you but I felt it my need to warn you to be careful. I do not know what threat lies in front of you but I have reason to fear for your safety. I dearly wish that I could tell you more and I hope this letter does not simply strike fear in your heart and torment you, which is not my intention. I merely desire for you to be careful and alert in your future endeavors. **

**Sincerely yours,**

**Your father, Charles Douglas. **

The wording of the letter confused me. It was simultaneously apologetic and defensive. I scanned it, trying to use some of the tactics I had witnessed my good friend use in the course of our familiarity but came up with nothing, besides the fact that the letter seemed relatively new and that it had been crumpled at one point. I suspected that Miss Holmes had discarded of it upon its receipt before having a change of heart and pocketing it instead. She must have felt it was important enough to bring it to her stepbrother.

Holmes waited patiently until I was finished and had handed the letter back over. He fingered the parchment, a tiny frown on his face. His actions seemed to upset his sister, who stared at his hands uncomfortably.

"Do you know where he is now?" The detective asked her; I was almost certain that his eyes held pity in them, underneath the layer of professionalism he instinctively assumed under emotional situations.

"No," she replied, "I haven't spoken a word to my father since I was seven. There was no return address and, even if there had been, I wouldn't have taken the time to write back. I have nothing to say to him and a letter was the last thing I expected. It came out of the blue one day; I figured that perhaps he had lost touch with reality while confined."

"You think he may not be lucid? Do you believe this letter has nothing to do with your problem?"

She shifted her shoulders, looking exasperated, "I did not think so, to be honest. I thought he'd merely lost his already tenuous grasp on reality. But in view of recent developments, I cannot help but think that this letter is more than a coincidence."

Holmes nodded, either in agreement about the letter or her father's mental health, or perhaps both. "May I keep this for awhile?" He folded the slip up carefully and slid it into his leather pocket book after she nodded tensely. She watched his every movement with absorption. Despite her claims of disgust, she seemed awfully attached to the letter.

"Do you think her father may figure into this somehow, Holmes?" I asked.

He shrugged, tapping his long fingers against his notecase. "He may very well, then again he may very well not. It is not something I can overlook, though. You know what I say about the smallest detail. It's always good to keep things handy, I may be able to deduce something about his location or his state of mind from that little scrap of paper. Are you absolutely positive that this is your father's handwriting, Lillian? Do you recognize it after all these years?"

She nodded, "Yes, he curves the top of his 'r' downward in a very distinctive manner."

After sliding his pocketbook back into his jacket, he gave his sister-by-law a long look. "Where are you staying?"

"By the Cathedral, I forget the name of the street. It's the only hotel there, a small place named- "

"I know where it is." He cut her off. "Have you seen your Michael today?" His voice was neutral - a little too neutral.

I could swear that I beheld a hint of anger in her expression. "No, we are to meet for lunch around noon today."

"Where?"

"At the Lyons hotel. Then we are going to walk on the embankment."

A long, pregnant silence passed, in which the siblings observed each other steadfastly. Finally Holmes broke the contact, smiling lightly. "_Vous traite-t-il bien_?"

The question seemed to make her even more uncomfortable. She nodded stiffly, "Of course."

"Good."

She exhaled, as if his answer was not what she desired it to be and then rose. "Well, I really must be off. I have a few errands to run today before my lunch appointment. Can I trust that you will look into the matter for me?"

Holmes and I stood as well; I went to open the door for her departure as my friend answered, "You can be assured that I'll give it my full attention." He gestured to me where I stood by the door, "Watson, would you be so kind as to ask our lovely landlady if she would mind lending my inattentive sister here a pair of gloves before she ventures out into the cold once again?"

I did as asked. Mrs. Hudson was more than willing to give the poor girl one of her casual pairs that she no longer used. When I reached the sitting room again, brother and sister were still standing at opposite sides of the room but neither looked as though they had spoken since I had left. I gave Holmes a questioning glance but he ignored me, pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the sideboard. I urged Miss Holmes to take a few sips of brandy to warm her before she went outdoors. She complied, looking thankful for my consideration. She downed the whole glass in one swig, with Holmes watching bemusedly.

"You never were one for etiquette, were you, Lillian?"

She cocked an eyebrow, "I learned from the very best."

He laughed at the smart remark.

As she was pulling on her gloves Holmes gave her some final parting instructions.

"I do not want you to act as if you are here for any other reason than a spontaneous holiday. I take it I am correct in assuming that this man - or these men - do not know that you are aware of their presence?" She nodded and he continued, "I am sure if someone is here, they will soon find out about our meeting, its quite inevitable, so it does not matter if they are aware of our acquaintance. In fact, in may be the best strategy to be open about it; they would probably assume you'd try to conceal it if you were coming to speak to me of the matter. I want you to go about your day as you have planned to. Do not vary from it or do anything to raise their suspicions that you are aware of them. If they have not accosted you yet, I doubt they will now. I think their plan is more complicated than mere physical harm. If you see someone following you as you leave, do not fret, I will be somewhere behind him . . . I will be right there."

She flexed her fingers, adjusting to the new gloves. She smiled, "Or it may just be you following me."

He didn't smile back. "No, you won't see me, I assure you. But I will be there."

She thanked us politely but stiffly and strode off as Holmes stood impassively by the bow window. Her petticoats whispered on the stairs and finally faded from earshot. He watched her travel down the street through the wet glass, a dark frown of contemplation on his face. As he waited for her to get a small head start in front of him, I attempted to draw some views from him but to no avail, I was unable to penetrate through his deep thoughts. After an appropriate amount of time had passed, without a word, he grabbed his coat and left. I heard him slip out of the back door of the house and all I could do was wait until he returned.


	4. Excerpt from a Diary Pt 1

_Excerpt from a diary. _

_My father was happy. _

_It was a bizarre understanding to come to as a boy, considering that in my own adolescent mind I had never really noticed that he was unhappy. A young person's vision, direct and peripheral, doesn't usually include the feelings of others. Even so, had I been asked at the time, I would have been hard pressed to articulate even what I myself felt. My own unhappiness was acknowledged but unnamed, an eerie feeling that I didn't understand. The tickle of gloom that habitually accompanied punishment or the loss of a treasured trinket was nothing to what I experienced then. I suppose it would have only been natural to assume the others around me were as capable of such sorrow. But youth is a fine justification for ignorance, though father would not like to hear me reason that way. He was unbendable in his beliefs, a good quality in a man of his profession. At least it meant he was consistent, predictable. If anything, the unexpected was feared; being able to foresee behavior was a strong suit of mine, one that kept with me. So I avoided doing anything that I did not see the outcome of, in an effort to avoid his disappointed stare. "Lack of knowledge is not a permission slip" he would always say and I heartily agreed, except of course when I didn't understand the effects of my actions, so I suppose in reality I did not agree. _

_Despite my effort though, it was a bit difficult to keep my nose clean and out of trouble. Consequences were not definite to me at the age of ten, and irresponsible behavior was unavoidable. But this ignorance also prevented me from sensing my own fate, thus I had no idea when that curtained carriage pulled up to a rattled stop outside my home, what exactly the repercussions would be. I didn't know much at the time, except that I was getting a fresh mother and sister. Somewhere in my young thought, I believe I even imagined that perhaps picking up a new family was like shopping in the marketplace. Little did I know that not much personal choice went into loving someone; it was force nothing like the calm calculation of purchasing necessities. My father, despite my view that his morals and standards prevented him from ever acting out on pure emotion, apparently was just as susceptible to that undeniable force._

_At the moment, however, I did not know anything except that a new woman was coming to take care of me (at that age, I also believed that every action and event centered around myself). Though, I did not see why I needed a new mother; after all, the old one had been quite superior before she died, despite her quirks. I resolved to treat this new woman as nothing more than a nanny. I had to confess to a certain excitement, however, at the prospect of having a sibling closer to my age. Mycroft, at 17, was no companion, though he did look out after me like a second father. But he was far too old and too big, both mentally and physically, to play with me. The only activity he was capable of was teaching me to pick things apart, an act, which he pursued so relentlessly that on occasion, usually when I would rather be outside playing, I grew angry with him. _

_Our home was a lacking that vital quality that so many households possessed - a woman. Even my mother, in her moments of mental lucidity, had brightened the place with her very presence. It had been lonesome two years with just my brother and father, though loneliness was another concept that I did not have a firm grasp on as a boy. _

_That morning, I stood watching out the bow window, waiting for my new family to appear. My father had been away to France on one his crusades when he met my new mother. I had to admit to a feeling of resentment; considering he hardly had time for his own children but managed to find time to marry. Of course, even as a young boy I knew that he would have more time on his hands now that mother had passed and he no longer had to take care of her; no longer had to endure painful visits to that horrid place where she was confined. I understood this a bit, for I had always hated the moments I saw her there; to stand in that small room, never knowing whether she would even recognize me. She'd pace about the small space, speaking to me but over me - around me. It frightened me to see this strange woman wearing my mother's face. I couldn't figure out the change, I didn't understand that it was even possible to literally become another person as she did. But now that those moments have passed onto the dimply lit past, I miss them. Or maybe I simply miss her. _

_I couldn't help but think of her face as I stood there. I wondered if my new mother would resemble her in any way. If she had, I don't think I would have handled it well at that age. It would be a counterfeit, a pale comparison if she looked anything like mother. I hoped she was different . . . new. I hoped I could know her without constantly seeing mother's face, or smelling her scent, or remembering her pale figure pacing back and forth, speaking to herself and wringing her slender and elegant hands together. _

_My father came to stand behind me as I tried to claw my way out of my thoughts, his bulky hands resting on my shoulders. His fingernails were clean, polished to a high shine that I could see even in the obscure mirror of the window. His hands trembled a bit, those same hands that raved and gestured with a sure fire during his sermons. He was excited; the Messiah had not returned, judgment was not falling from the heavens - but the woman he loved was coming to be with him. He mumbled a few heartfelt assurances that I would get on well with the new additions to my family as his hands found their way into my hair and endeavored to tame the untidy and stray strands. _

_I focused on my reflection in the mirror, watching his progress. He wasn't having much success; Madeline hadn't had time to trim my hair or tame it with pomade because she was busy making ready the house for the new occupants. A copy image of me stared back though you could not see my freckles in the opaque distortion of my features. I had 23 freckles spattered across my nose and cheeks; somehow I knew that without even counting. I was able to remember things as if I were staring at a photograph. It was a handy skill to have for covering my tracks after being into things I wasn't supposed to be, such as when I read through my father's confidential papers and journals. _

_I reached up to press my finger against the glass, poking my own likeness in the eye. My focus blurred when I saw that the carriage had arrived; my reflection was discarded for this new, more interesting sight. _

_I glanced up at my father, searching him for clues as to how I was to behave. I asked him if we were to meet them at the gate or if it were custom to wait behind the threshold of the house. I was terribly confused about the whole situation. When we received guests, we usually waited inside the house to receive them formally. But these were no ordinary guests; they were no "guests" at all, in actuality. I felt a rush of excitement and fear now that I was nearly face-to-face with the unknown. At my uncertainty, my father smiled, grasping my hand warmly. The grey of his suit complimented my black one nicely. It was my best suit, though Mycroft joked that I already looked like father, with my white collar and long row of buttons. I did not like the way he said it, as if he had already confined me to my future. I would never have admitted to him that I preferred the color because it reminded me of my mother because I feared he would reprimand me for such emotionalism. _

_Father pulled me out to the dirt walkway, where Mycroft and a few servants we employed were already waiting dutifully and in much better condition than me. We traipsed down to the carriage, observing as the driver unloaded the sparse luggage. My heart thumped deafeningly against my ribs and Mycroft looked accusingly at me, though I find it hard to believe he could hear the sound. When father neared the carriage, he pulled me along as well, past the servants and the ceremonial Mycroft. I felt special as the one he brought near to his new wife to show first, as if I were something to be proud of. _

_The grandeur of the moment was lost a bit when a small girl tumbled out of the door in the clumsiest way. She righted herself and smiled charmingly at my father. Her mother followed close behind. The two women who exited the cab resembled each other greatly. Both light blonds, with clear green eyes, both tall._

_My mother's hair used to be as black as the heavy night. _

_The child who'd made such a decorous entrance was my about age. Standing behind her mother with a simple grey dress with midnight blue trim wrapped around her waist and tied in her hair, she looked timid, unsure in her new surroundings. She caught my eye as father was introducing his new wife and smiled. Her expression was mischievous, as if she was standing on the small precipice of doing something wicked at any moment. I was intrigued by her and smiled back, but only faintly. I was distracted. A long white scar that trailed down her jaw and to her chest caught my attention. It looked like someone had cut her with the old pocketknife I kept hidden under my bed. It hardly looked like a common wound from a mishap. There was something sinister in it, something that angered me and made my fingers itch to do something. I think she noticed my attention; her smile faded, her little fingers coming up to adjust her bodice self-consciously. _

_My new mother talked to me a bit awkwardly, though her interest in my hobbies seemed authentic and sincere. She seemed to know a lot about things that interested me. I suspected that she had practiced what she wanted to say. She was very pretty. She knelt to my eye level and her hand hovered above my shoulder and seemed tempted to adjust my collar. She wanted to touch me but was uncomfortable. I should have smiled or tried to put her at ease but my interest was still diverted by the young girl. The woman I would soon come to call "mama" forced out a few more nervous words before ruffling my unkempt hair lightly and trailing a gloved hand over my cheek in the most pleasant manner. She stood to introduce herself to my stolid brother, which was one of the most uncomfortable moments I'd ever been privy to. Mycroft was not easily taken with anyone, nor did he feel the need to lower himself for the comfort or ease of another._

_Finally, father gestured the young girl forward to be presented. As her mother pulled her gently by the shoulder, her bonnet flew off her head, landing in the brush next to the drive. _

_I, at once, took off after the wayward article, unmindful to the fact that the servants were the ones who were supposed to go chasing stray hats. I reached the lawn and received the accessory, tripping over a loose rock and falling onto my knees inelegantly in the process. As I sat there, hearing the deafening silence of the company behind me, I cursed myself for that inborn eagerness that plagued me and forced me into acting without thinking. I closed my eyes, humiliated, but refused to show it. Father would be angry at me for getting my suit dirty and I sent a silent prayer that he would not reprimand me while in the presence of everyone. My ego was a sensitive thing, a trait that stuck with me even into my later years. I stood and took a moment to rally myself, forcing my face into a neutral expression. I resolved not to be embarrassed for my actions. _

_I strode stoically back to the group, brushing off my ruined pants and my stepsister's hat as I went. I held it out to her with a steady hand, meeting her eyes without any expression. She wasn't intimidated by my impassive stare. She accepted the dusty hat with a small curtsy, her ungloved hand brushed against mine. She glanced at her mother and I could tell that she was trying to stifle a giggle at me. _

_I could feel my face growing red. My cheeks flushed warm and uncomfortable. It was the first time I had ever blushed. _


	5. Familial Background

From the notes of John H. Watson

Holmes returned to our flat a short while later, as the clock was just passing the noontime marker. I could hear his winter boots on the stairway, louder than usual, as if something was deeply troubling him. He took every step with heavy deliberation, pausing on the top step for a few seconds before opening the door. I bombarded him with questions as soon as he entered the room but he merely moved away from me, starting suddenly as if he hadn't noticed my presence until I was pressing him for details. He went to the sideboard, downing the remaining brandy he'd left before pouring himself another glass and swirling it thoughtfully.

"Did you learn anything? Was she being followed?" I asked.

He took his time swirling and imbibing the amber-colored fluid as he observed me over the rim. "No," he finally answered, stroking the convex glass with his thumb absently, "she was thankfully un-harassed, though I can't say I'm particularly pleased with this seemingly auspicious fact because it may have been helpful to catch a glance of her stalker - or one of her stalkers, if that be the case. It was not completely unfruitful, though, I did manage to send a telegraph off to the Australian labor camp where her father was sent. I expect an answer soon."

"What exactly is it you are you trying to find out by writing to the camp?"

"Well, first and foremost, where her father went after his release, assuming his letter was truthful."

"Would he have a reason to lie about such a thing?"

He shrugged, "Not that I could see, but I don't have enough facts to go on yet, and you know my policy on proceeding on assumptions or guesses."

"So you do think he has something to do with this?"

"I have a strong inclination that he does. By the way, I arranged for some dinner to be sent. Mrs. Hudson informed me that she is going to be at her niece's tonight. Do you like duck and white wine?"

"Yes, yes," I waved away, slightly annoyed by the change of topic, "that sounds splendid." I took a deep breath, "Would you feel it rude of me to ask you for some details about your sister and her family? Apparently you find her past to be of important and quite honestly, I feel like I am in the dark on the matter." I held my breath, fully expecting a well-executed evasion or outright annoyance at my prying.

He set his glass down and leaned against the table, looking surprisingly unbothered by my questions. "Very well then, I suppose you are wondering why that letter has piqued my curiosity so?" I nodded and he continued succinctly, "It is merely because any correspondence from my sister's natural father is suspicious. They did not get along well, to put it very mildly, and her father was not the type to write and keep in touch. In fact, in all the ten years I lived under the same roof with Lillian and her mother, I don't believe I recall either of them ever receiving a communication from him. Cicely and Lillian hardly spoke of him, so little that I tended to forget he even existed. I think they actually _did_ want to forget that he existed. Though I'm not sure they could."

"Why did they not get along?" I asked, wondering what special circumstances could cause a father to treat his own offspring as if they did not matter. It was a concept that my mind could not and would not ever be able to fathom. If I were ever blessed with a wife and child, I don't believe I'd be capable of caring about anything else with quite the same passion.

"Well, for one thing, he was an extremely violent man. He was physically and emotionally abusive to my stepmother and sister for years. The law eventually caught up to him when he chanced into a brawl at an…. establishment of ill repute in the north of France and struck a man dead with the leg of a stool. He attempted to flee but was caught because he couldn't resist visiting another bar and became so aled-up that he tangled himself in another fight and was fair copped that same night."

"Is that why your step-mother was granted a divorce?"

He seemed a bit nettled about my question, "That seems just to you, does it not?"

I quickly and heartily agreed and pressed him gently for any more information. "So when did she marry your father?" I admit I was not only curious for the sake of the case, but because I rarely chanced upon an opportunity to learn more of Holmes' past. Those occasions were few and far between. The discovery of his brother, one dwelling right here in London, did not come until five years into our friendship.

"When I was ten they moved in. Father was off in France – he used to travel in his ministry, speaking at various churches – when he met her. Apparently, he literally ran into her at the market and stepped on her bread. He made Lillian cry because he ruined her lunch. He took them to a café and bought them both coffee and bread to make amends. They moved in a month later."

"A month?" I could not keep the disbelief out of my tone.

"Yes, a mere month; a short engagement to be sure. But my father was happier than he had been since my mother had died, so it was hard to judge him harshly. I was no position to question his spontaneity, since I had so often harbored resentful thoughts about his rigidity and seemingly perfect composure. It was his one impulsive act, and the one thing he did for his own happiness and I was proud of him for it. "

He lit a cigarette and inhaled on it between sips of brandy, apparently at ease with this personal subject. We were quiet a moment as these last words seemed to sink in. It was a strangely personal thing for Holmes to confess. Perhaps it was wicked of me, but I decided to continue asking for details until he declined to answer. "Was she a pleasant substitute for your own mother?"

An eyebrow arched, he appeared to think the question as a bit impudent but he replied anyway. "Yes," he started thoughtfully, "I suppose she was. She was lovely but she wasn't my mother so our relationship was not usual for a son and parent. That's not to say she wasn't kind and smart; she was bright, clever, and more caring than most. I remember that she used to ask me to sit by her and play her favorite song on my violin for her…though I can't remember what it was. She fondly referred to me as 'Shy', a shortened form of the name of Shakespeare's famous character, but I had no idea of the reference until I was older. She was obsessed with the bard and would read to me on occasion. But she wasn't my mother and did not presume to be."

"She handled the whole situation with aplomb, you say?"

"Indeed, she knew it would not have been welcome of her to attempt to substitute."

"What was your real mother like? If you do not mind the question."

He crossed his ankles and put his palms on the table behind him, squinting up above my head as if concentrating. "To be totally honest, my dear man, I do not remember much about her. Strangely, I can remember what she looked like most vividly – very dark hair, light eyes; in fact, her coloring was much like mine - but I do not have any solid memories of talking to her. It's all a bit of a blur, I was very young and my memory of things are usually pushed out by new endeavors, unfortunately." He took off his coat, tossing it over the back of his chair and putting his glass on the table next to it after crushing his spent smoke in the ashtray.

"You mean to say that you remember nothing?"

"Well, I remember a few snatches, here and there, but nothing of importance. I just generally remember . . ." He trailed off.

"Generally remember?" I encouraged gently, hoping my window of opportunity wasn't closing.

"I remember that she was quiet, she played the piano beautifully . . . and was a bit sad at times."

"A bit sad about what?"

He shrugged offhandedly, either at a loss for an answer or simply disinclined to provide it for me at this time. He shuffled around a bit, taking his precious cigarettes from his coat jacket and generally ignoring the conversation. I changed the subject, my instincts telling me that I had gotten all I could from him on this personal topic.

"I still find it hard to believe that your father is a man of God." I commented, a bit smartly. He glanced up at me as he bent to rummage through his pile of papers for the latest editions.

"I could be very offended by that, Watson." His grey eyes twinkled at me as he rolled a smoke and inhaled deeply on his cigarette. After only a few puffs, he snuffed it out and retrieved his cherry pipe instead, packing it full of tobacco.

I watched his careful movements as he prepared his pipe. "I meant no insult, my dear Holmes, I merely always imagined that your father was a scientific individual, much as yourself and your brother."

He smiled, exhaling blue smoke with a thoughtful expression on his finely formed face. "Who's to say faith isn't a science?" He asked, a tad huffily. "I did not mind his profession at all. He was a warm man, who, even in his rigidity, was always acting out of love and concern for those around him, especially his family. Mycroft and he did not get along, though, mostly because Mycroft neither believed nor disbelieved and that aggravated my father. The last thing my father tolerated was indecisiveness, even if it wasn't really indecisiveness so much as indifference, as was the case with my brother."

"And what of you? How did you two get along with your scientific views? Did your opposing ideas cause a strain?"

Holmes frowned at me, as if confused by my statement. "Our ideas weren't so opposing. I believed. I still do. It's logical almost to me, for if this world is all there is then there really is no purpose to existence is there? It's impossible for me to think that we are all ruled by chance for a short time until we pass on and then that is the end." He did not wait for my response to his admission but continued on reminiscently, "My fondest memories were of my father, reading the Bible at me after I had engaged in some activity he did not approve of. When Lillian moved in, it almost became a game; we looked for ways to provoke him so that we could sit in the library together and listen as he read to us. I simply enjoyed the attention, while Lillian thought it wonderful that the worst form of punishment in our house was Bible reading, especially after the cruel treatment she had endured at her own father's hand."

He threw himself heavily into his chair, his brandy, pipe, and smokes at the ready. He opened the London Times, and kicked off his shoes. His actions bewildered me, as it was not usual for him to be so relaxed while on a case.

He shook out his paper, snuggling into his seat with his stocking feet tucked beneath him and his cherry pipe comfortably in his mouth. I could see that he was signaling the end of the conversation. I stared at the backside of the agony columns for a moment, surprised by the sudden conclusion of our talk. I stood and gathered a yellow back novel from Holmes' numerous scientific, criminal, and more popular books and took a seat across from him. I could feel him pause in his reading, as if expecting some more nosy questions from my end. After a moment, in which he could see that my train of curiosity had been effectively derailed, he shook out his paper once again and we sat in silence.

ﮎ

Holmes spent the next few weeks in a queer state of mind, it seemed. He played violent snatches on his violin, ate sporadically and would neither talk to Lillian or me when she would drop by to ask how the investigation was going. I tried not to let her know that he had not spoken to me of any progress, but tried instead to appear encouraging. I knew he had fallen into the habit of following her; it was the only time he left the house, in fact. When I dared to ask him what good it was doing; what information he could possibly be gathering, he shot me a bone-chilling glare and departed into his room with that vile needle.

In fact, I understood that the frequency of his use of the drug was so great during this period, that more than once I saw him arrive him with a small brown parcel, which I knew contained more of the solution. I worried about what lasting effects the drug were having on that brilliant but highly precise and intricate mind of his. He had once told me that the emotion of love added to his system of thought would be akin to a grain of sand in a sensitive machine; the introduction may be a minor one but it would have devastating consequences. I didn't understand what he meant, I found it hard to see how such a pure thing could truly disrupt his work as he seemed to think it would. I marveled at how such a perceptive man could not see that the drug he insisted on introducing to his system was far more destructive than that grain of sand could ever be.

On the other hand, his conversation was pleasant, even jovial, almost to the point of being suspicious. Usually, while under the sway of that dark influence he was so dependent on, he was not an agreeable person to be in the company of. The most dark reaction would come over him. But in this instance, that was not the case. There seemed to be a miasma of cheerfulness in the air in passing conversation. It was an act that Holmes almost perfected, but I was not fooled. Holmes was a master of subterfuge, but I could still see the agitation that seemed to be clutching at him. I could only assume that it was due to familial concern and considered his unusual anxiety to be normal. After all, no client had ever been so close to him before. But I have to confess that it disturbed me, for though I was use to his dark moods and occasional spells of depression, this was something entirely new and I had no idea how to approach it. I debated within myself, being too cowardly to ask him if he were all right, or to even broach the topic of his drug use, something that I normally would not, as a doctor, be hesitant to mention.

He seemed to retain some of his old self on the third Thursday following Lillian's initial visit. He came in during the noontime and, with only a nod in my direction serving as a greeting, began flipping through his correspondents. I watched him, while pretending to read my paper, as one letter apparently proved interesting enough to be opened and read intently. His face darkened and I, despite my familiarity with his moods, could not read the emotion visibly transforming his expression. I could not remember ever before seeing that look on my friend's face and knew that I would not again. I was teetering on the verge of interfering and asking him if he were all right, when he seemed to gather himself and slipped the letter into his pocket. Coming across another message, he opened this one also and frowned.

He read it, a small glimmer of amusement rising to his face. He lay down on the sofa, twirling the communication around in his musical fingers while staring up at the ceiling with a dreamy look that obviously veiled his deep thinking. I observed him covertly from over my newspaper, waiting for him to reveal something to me. Generally speaking, Holmes was very open with me concerning developments of a case, that is, of course, as long as he was not nearing the _denouement _of a problem, when he typically favored keeping mum so as to heighten the sensational effect of his conclusion. It was the dramatist that dwelled in him, though he would never admit it in public company.

"Well," he declared at last, still weaving the paper in an elegant pattern in the air and staring at the ceiling, "it seems that getting a fix on our dear Mr. Douglas is going to be harder than I originally expected." He spoke in my direction, as if fully aware of my attention. I folded and put away my paper.

"Oh? And why is that?" I asked my friend curiously.

He hefted his elegant form up without effort. Standing in the silhouetting glare of the midday sun, which was breaking through the gloom of the winter afternoon with a heavenly illumination, he looked, in a suddenly stirring moment, darkly angelic; like a dangerous but pure force in and of himself.

He moved away from the window, the feeling passed and he was once again just that brilliant man capable of the most aggravating behavior. "The penal colony that formally housed my stepsister's father has no knowledge of his whereabouts it seems." He tossed the letter across to me and I scanned it. I could not help the smile that spread across my face.

"It seems you have a faithful follower even in the distance region of Australia, my dear Holmes." I was referring to the writer of the letter, an overseer of the colony named Mr. Crowe, an apparent ardent admirer of Holmes. I could deduce from the tone that he was a young man, eager and zealous. The language he used was almost of a pupil talking to an adulated master. It would not surprise me to know that this man was vying for the opportunity to sit at my good friend's feet and be thoroughly taught in all things intellectual. He was unabashed about his veneration as well, unlike the proud Scotland Yarders who stood in awe of Holmes but hid their respect and high regard behind a cover of derision and skepticism.

My good friend blushed that subtle hue that was peculiar to him but shrugged off-handedly. I could see that he was pleased with the enthusiastic response of his protégé-in-waiting.

"He is a young man, desperate for respect and recognition." He commented. I resisted the urge to point out that Holmes himself could have been described exactly the same way when I first made his acquaintance.

"He's simply latched on to my ideas as his way of achieving this." He continued. "I'm debating whether or not to advise him that he won't make his way in the world imitating others, he must shine on his own. Otherwise, he will never walk in his own light, but always under the shadow of the deeds and accomplishments of others."

"I do believe that would be a splendid piece of council, Holmes. And I have no doubt it would mean the world coming from you."

"Yes, but I'm afraid it will have to wait. For now I will humour him." he disappeared into his room and came back with the letter from Lillian's father and laid it out on the table, smoothing it out gently with the back of his acid and chemical stained hand. "I confess that I still need his assistance, and he seems ready and willing to do me any favor I may ask. So why not take advantage of his eagerness and at least get something in return before sending him on his way?" He gave me a mockingly sincere look, "In fact, I'd say it would be cruel of me NOT to ask a favor of him, seeing as how much he desires to be of assistance."

"Of course." I agreed heartily. "I'm sure he'll be ecstatic to be of service. What will you require him to do?"

He pulled out his pocket lens and began looking over the scrap of paper. "This is high-quality stationary and most unique. You see how thick it is throughout? And if you look through the lens here, you will see intricate threading around the edges to prevent ripping and tearing. The color is not so special but I do think this may be a start." He examined the back of the paper, running his thumb carefully over the parchment, and then smiled slowly. He showed me the bottom left corner. I could see the initials "J.B" embossed into the paper. Holmes took out his pocketknife, and very carefully sliced off a corner of the letter. He wrote a quick telegram and slipped it into an envelope with the severed piece.

He hurried downstairs to send the communication off with Billy, our occasional pageboy. I could hear his muffled tones at the bottom of the stairs, addressing the young man with that mild and affectionate tone that was so instinctual for him when speaking to young children. He returned a few seconds later, looking pleased with his self.

"I informed our Mr. Crowe that I am, quite desperately, in need of finding the maker of that particular stationary. I passed on to him the initials on the back and told him I would greatly appreciate it if he could do some comparison looking for me. Perhaps it's a fool's errand, but I'm sure he'll do his very best. If he is able to gather the information I desire, it would be most helpful."

"And what if he is not able to help you?"

"Then . . ." he trailed off, "I suppose I'll have to look into other channels." He finished vaguely.

He gathered his winter coat and scarf from the hall, bundling himself up.

"I trust you'll inform my sister of all I've said if she wanders by to be appraised of the case. I realize that you've both been quite eager for some news. I'm sorry I don't have more to tide you over."

I wasn't surprised that he was aware of our tightly controlled expectations. I inquired of him where he was off to. He tightened the argyle scarf around his neck and reached for his leather gloves.

"I have to run some errands and other various tasks - life does not work for you, you must work for life. As to the case, the only thing we can do until we get a response to our dispatch is information gathering."

"Where do you plan on doing this gathering?" I asked. At this time, I couldn't imagine there being any fruitful means of investigation. So far, the mysterious shadows stalking the steps of the lovely Miss Holmes were keeping out of sight and mum.

"Newspapers." With that succinct answer he was out the door.


	6. Pieces from a Journal Pt 1

_Pieces from a journal._

ﭏ

I do not know what possessed me to ask to meet him in private. I cast a glance about the courtyard, tucking my coat tighter about my form, and shiver against the frosty wind. The day is fittingly overcast and gloomy. I feel my own mood echoed in the stinging trill of the wind. The snow has been brushed off the ashen granite about the benches and from a towering statue of mother Mary that resides in the middle of the courtyard. There I stand, against all my better judgment, staring up into the midday sky, wondering if I should just leave before he shows. Seeing as I'd asked him to be present at noon and it was now a quarter past, I knew I had a few more minutes before my habitually late brother appeared. Being alone with him was never wise, even when we were younger. Somehow I'd always been more inclined towards bad behavior while under his influence. Though, I am certain he would claim the same in reverse.

Some errant sparrows are bopping around the bare branches of a birch tree. I watch them absently. My mind is going at full steam, its wheels chugging and turning. All tracks seem to lead to my aloof stepbrother. I was startled to see him the other day; not that I wasn't expecting to see him when I went to his rooms. No, the effect that seeing him worked on me was startling, more than I would like to admit. I had prepared myself for that dreaded but most wanted moment before I went, prepared for almost a fortnight. Regulated my breathing, practiced a neutral expression, all to fool him into believing that I hadn't been thinking of him for the past thirteen years. That I hadn't been waiting for a reason to knock on his door. I'd wanted him to see me and know I hadn't missed him in the least. A small part of me wished to throw my fiancé's name at his feet and watch him squirm, but he hadn't. No, leave it up to my dear brother to manage to look affronted despite his own faults. I'd wanted to torture him.

And, once again, I failed miserably.

I could tell by the look on that passive face of his, that he thought I had another reason for my sudden appearance. I think he was even a little frightened by me. I'm not sure how that makes me feel, to know that I am one of the few individuals still capable of knocking him off kilter. Of anyone I'd ever known, no one had his or her feet quite as firmly planted on the ground as my brother, the celebrated detective. To be one of the few forces that could sway him, even if only as much as a strong breeze, was as exhilarating as it had always been.

He had pulled off a wonderful how of indifference though, except for that small blunder on the stairs, when I caught him off guard by appearing behind him. He had looked badly shaken for a moment, before slipping into that nonchalance that came so naturally to him. The urge to laugh at him had been strong, but was overwhelmed by other desires. The most potent of which was to slap him. He was in need of a good slap, had been ever since he was a youngster. He'd been sweet as a boy, but arrogance had overcome him quickly once he began to grow up. His brilliance, though, protected him from the usual punishment for rudeness. And his charm protected him from losing my affection, even up to this moment, when he least deserved it.

I debate whether to flee before he comes and there's no looking back, but it's too late, and I see his shadow on the glistening snow to the side of me. I squint at him, though there's no sun today.

He lets his grey eyes roam over me now that we're alone; his gaze lingers on the scar that graces the side of my face and then follows the line slowly to the front of my bodice. I know he is remembering the night I finally confessed to him how I received it, but his attention causes me to flush up despite myself. He stares for a bit, either thinking or watching me breath, and then gazes up at the stature of Mary that seems to reprimand him from on high.

I take a moment to analyze him in a way I couldn't while under the watchful, though kind, attention of Dr. Watson. He's older, a few lines stretch from the corners of his eyes in a surprisingly becoming way. His gaze still holds the vestiges of youth in their intensity and depth. Only on closer inspection do I see that his hair has begun to grey faintly around his ears, even at this early age.

He tears his attention away from our heavenly, silent spectator and looks me in the eye at last. I feel caught between him and my own desires.

His first words are not what I expect, "Did you want to speak to me about something, Lily?" His abruptness irks me but I swallow down the beginnings of my irritation.

"Do I have to have a reason for wanting to speak to my brother?" I say lightly. "We haven't seen each other for quite some time now; we should have some catching up to do. I'm sure much has happened in the thirteen years since we last spoke." My words come out in a rush of breath, dissipating in the air between us, a few firmer spoken words bursting against his chest in puffs of mist. I smiled shakily, nervousness making my hands fidget - a habit that I thought I had grown out of long ago.

He looks doubtful, his head slanting in an interrogatory manner before he catches himself. A feather of a smile falls upon his lips. "Very well then, so how have you been?" He asks, a tone of nonchalance in his voice that is so thick that it borders on mockery.

I shrug, which I know aggravates him and his desire for preciseness, "Quiet." I respond.

"Merely quiet?"

"For the most part my life is merely quiet. Which is exactly how I prefer it. You may fancy a life of high excitement but I'm content with calm. I live in the country now and I teach music to some young boys."

He doesn't comment on my assessment of him. "So you mentioned. How is France?"

He turns slightly and I follow my cue, falling into step with him. We begin walking out of the courtyard, our frosty breath being caught by the wind as we make our way down the snow-covered street.

"Absolutely stunning," I gesture widely with my hands, trying to impress upon him the measure of my home's beauty. "Paris is nice for an occasional retreat but there is something undeniably wonderful about the country. I feel the words of Emerson more strongly there than I ever could in the bustle of the city. I also love the French, such a contradictory people." I can't seem to look at him, keeping my gaze on the bare gaslights above us, lonely and dusted with snow.

I don't need to look at him to know that he's smirking sardonically. I feel his eyes on me for a moment before the weight of it departs and he resumes staring straight ahead. "Many could say the same about the English."

"True . . . as I am sure they do."

He watches me tuck in a few stray curls. "You use to wear your hair down whenever you could, Lily, why the sudden concern?"

"Hmmm? Oh, I suppose its merely habit. The gentleman who runs the music school I teach for is very particular about propriety. If any of my hair is askew or loose he reacts as though I'm wearing only my corset and chemise." I laugh.

He glances around, as if to reassure his self that our conversation is confidential. "That's not so very strange. I've known employers to ask their clients to do rather eccentric things with their hair."

"Really? Is that one of your stories that aren't proper for mixed company?" I ask wearily.

He laughs softly. It's a very unsettling but musical sound. He quiets and then glances down at my outfit, "Are you cold out here?" I shake my head and he continues on a bit teasingly, "So, when did you move to the stunning land of the French?"

I stroll along beside him, contemplating how to answer and finally settle on honesty. He must have noticed my hesitancy, because I can feel those sharp eyes on me once again as we walked on through the midday rush and bustle of London. We're going at a slower pace than the rest of the crowd; they move and rush around us. Neither of us seem to notice or care.

"I went to Dover soon after you left and from there I accepted a position teaching the piano in Aquitine." I answer at last. "I couldn't stay in your father's house without my mum. He was a warm man, but I felt my welcome had been worn out once we were there alone because I wasn't his daughter . . . I began to feel I was just a reminder to him of his heartache and I couldn't bear to subject him to that any longer." We fall into a silence, the taboo topic of his departure now out in the open.

I push a stray lock of hair from my face, tucking it securely into my cap. I push caution out to the swirling wind and surge forward with what I want to ask; want I had wanted to ask for years. "Why did you leave?"

"You already know the answer to that, Lily, I went to University, as most young men do." I know that tone - the warning to not press him any further about a topic, either because he was not vested at all in the matter or because he was vested too much.

I ignore the sign, as I always did. "So it was merely a coincidence that after years of exhibiting no interest in it, you suddenly decide to enroll at University a week after my mother passed?"

He doesn't respond to me, but stares out into the street, as if he's strolling along by himself. I feel myself growing frustrated. "I confess, I read so much about you in Dr. Watson's stories and the papers – yes, you are in the papers even in France- and they chatter on about you and your surpassing bravery, how you swoop down in the face of danger, with no regard for yourself out of some noble concern for others. . . it makes me laugh every time. What does it really matter if you'd risk your life for a perfect stranger, if you aren't courageous enough to risk that damnable pride for someone you claim to love?"

His grey eyes fly to me and I see a wound in them, though I'm the only one who would recognize it. For a brief and horrible moment, it satisfies me to see. I continue on, "The fact is you're just a scared boy, a little boy; just like you were all those years ago when I first climbed into your bed to cry in your arms. Perhaps I made you that way; maybe it's my fault for pressing myself upon you in such a way. Perhaps I frightened you, perhaps I ruined you."

He stops then and faces me, and we stare at each other for a long while, two embedded rocks in the powerful river flow of the London crowd. "What precisely is it that you wish to have me say, Lily? What would please you?"

"I want you…" I trail off, taking time to force back down the tears gathering in my eyes. How could I tell him that I wanted him to reassure me that he didn't run away from me because he didn't care for me; that his departure wasn't a his way of succinctly informing me that he was just using me. I can't say that so I settle on the next best thing. "I want you to admit that you ran away _because _I needed you so much. I want you to admit that you were scared."

"I went to University because I needed to grow up. And I needed to let my father know what it was I wanted from life. Did you truly expect me to simply live in that house forever?"

"No. Don't insult me by insinuated I am so naive. And don't think for even a passing moment that I am fooled by your pretense of ignorance. You know full well that the situation was not so simple. You won't even admit that you were too scared to simply have a conversation with your father so you decided instead to pack up and leave without warning or explanation." I accuse harshly.

He looks exasperated, "I didn't want to _talk-_"

"Yes, of course" I interject sharply, "I know how much you hate to _talk _of things."

"It tires me."

"No, it frightens you."

He has the bloody audacity to laugh at me. As if the very idea of Sherlock Holmes frightened is so absurd.

"Why can't you admit it?" I ask, my anger giving sway to real curiosity.

He won't confess to me and we both know it. I believe that the reason is even hidden from himself in one of those tightly secured lockboxes that we all carry in our hearts and minds, where we place those things too delicate and disturbing to be looked upon or pondered. He averts those lovely eyes of his, a blush creeping up onto his cheeks. It's not that subtle flush he was disposed to after receiving compliments or attention. The shade is a bit darker, unusual for him. I think he's shamed. After a moment of embarrassed silence, he steps close to me.

We are not alone on the street.

For an instant I could swear that we are eighteen years old once again, back at our old home, standing on soft amethyst carpeting, with the high ceilings looming above and the fire crackling next to us, its cinders sparking and shifting. The warmth of it is sharp but comforting. His hand at my waist is hotter than the fire. There is music somewhere in this vague memory creeping into my consciousness but I can't quite focus, too flustered by his sudden intimacy.

He smells like clean air touched with only a hint of fragrant smoke. He leans forward somewhat and I think he is going to kiss me lightly on the forehead, chastely; like when we were children and I would come to him to cry, but he stops short.

"I did miss you." He confesses, softly, as if he were hoping I wouldn't hear him. His breath touches my temple.

I rest my head against his chin, caught up in the strange feeling of his beard scratching my skin as he stiffens under my touch. He'd never had any growth on his face when we were younger, his father being opposed to any sort of disheveled appearance. I do not care much for the change; it ruined the allusion that nothing was different. I regain my senses and pull away from him. The sounds of the street seem to burst renewed to my ears. I see a few curious passerbies staring at us. I realize then that my companion was quite a famous figure and probably was known on sight. He glances about too, looking suddenly tense. He tucks his chin more into his scarf, and generally tries to blend in to the milieu but it's hard to accomplish at his height and stature.

"That was simply not my fault." I brush his admission aside, "You could have very well written or visited anytime you pleased."

I sweep past him, covering over my pain with an impenetrable pretense of anger. I stalk down the busy street, jostling past the suddenly idle crowd as they loitered about, and leave him standing there on the pathway. I steel myself mentally for the argument that is sure to follow once he catches up with me. I fully expect any moment to feel that strong, and familiar hand around my elbow. Halfway down the second block, though, I realize he is not following me. I turn to look back in his direction but his tall figure is not there among the throng.

I stand there by myself. The snow lands softly on my cheek as if stroking my face in sympathy. Passerby's hurry past me; my mind seems to be going at a slower speed than the world about me.

I continue on alone to my rooms, lost in my own thoughts. I turn down an empty byway, traveling behind a woman's boarding house. A feeling surges up under my ribs, a struggle between the desire to laugh or weep. I end up submitting to both, and a choked sob breaks forth while I laugh bitterly into my gloves.

A chance memory wafts its way up through the muddled mess of my mind. Standing on one of the gently sloping hills behind the manor house, our black horse neighing behind us as we stand facing each other, his leather hugged hands running down my frock covered arms, the mist rolling idly around our feet and the grass dewy and wet beneath our soles. Slipping off a damp glove, despite the vapor shrouding us, I try to find some small patch of skin to feel in the midst of all his coats. I slide my hand into his, reaching my fingers up as far as his cuffs will allow. The skin of his flesh is covered in goose bumps, either because of the chill or my touch, and I place a gentle kiss on the delicate underside of his pale wrist. I lean forward until he recognizes the permission. He nuzzles his cool face in my neck, sighing peacefully … unlike myself, who carried leaden sorrow on her back like the yoke of some beast of burden.

The random remembrance is brief. It darts by like some shockingly cold but blessedly quick gust of impertinent wind. Its brilliantly vivid - the texture of his flesh, the chill in the air, the pliant fog that breathes into us with each inhalation, so icy that it burns my chest. His long fingers grip my arms tightly, and I fear that he'll leave marks on me. As if reading my mind, he loosens his hold, kneading my muscles gingerly. I feel him smile against my cheek. He kisses me then, wholly possessive, urgently, as if he could feel the cloud that was approaching our little world. As if he knew these things could not last forever -

My thoughts are cut into, brusquely by the sound of footsteps behind me. There is a brief and sharp crack as the ice moves beneath a heavy boot. The following steps are more muffled, soft, as if wary of detection. I turn, half-hoping and half-dreading to see that perhaps he had decided to follow, decided to continue our painful conversation. I peer into the blur of snow.

The wind shrills . . . no one is there.

I peer into the street, trying to see through the thin sheet of snow, which is falling softly like fresh pieces of white lace that touch the ground and scatter almost magically. The alleyway is lit brightly by the warm waves of the momentarily exposed sun. The glare and snow are obscuring for a blinding instant and then my vision clears. There is no one, not even a shadow of another human being. The solitude frightens me for some foolish reason and as I take up walking again, my pace quickens slightly. I send up a prayer to God that my brother is near, and that all my fears are unfounded. I'd never feared while in he was close to me.

The unmistakable sound of snow crunching under a boot hits my sensitive ears. I spin around, my spine abruptly tight and contracted, my eyes roving over the view in front of me. I was still near the cathedral; I could see the towering sanctuary over the wall of brick to my left. It frightened me now, unlike those days of my youth when I'd sit happily in the uncomfortable pew and listen to my stepfather's detailed descriptions of heaven, even though I believed I would never see it.

I reach a gloved hand out, my fingertips brushing the wall beside me to steady myself. London was full of alleys and bystreets and I knew someone could be hiding behind a near wall or corner. I saw a movement; a flicker of an ominous shadow, faint and doubtful but it was enough to convince me I was not alone.

I turn swiftly and stride forward determinedly, my head held high, trying to decide what on a course of action. I'm certain I'm being followed. I try to think of what my brother would do in this situation. Incongruously, I find myself momentarily wondering how many times the Great Mr. Sherlock Holmes had been followed about London by criminals or other personages of dubious intention. I shake myself of the rather ill timed straying of thought and duck unexpectedly onto a bystreet, hoping that I can find a way to lose my shadow in the murkiness of the snow and sleet.

I listen as I walk. The snow seems thunderous, the brush of soft ice against air is deafening. Keeping my gaze straight in front of me, my heart throbbing through my ribs, feeling as if it were going to burst any moment, I run a tremulous hand against the rutted wall beside me, searching for a hidden alcove or path in which to hide. Fear is a horrid feeling, tearing its way up through your throat with its pointed claws; choking you in its thick and sickly sweet odor. It's a thoroughly debilitating sensation, primal and base, exposing your cowardice and constraining you to the bare truth of yourself. Those portentous and unremitting footsteps behind me manifest themselves again, loudly now. The confidence I hear in that tread scares me more than anything. I break out into an unashamed run and so does my unshakeable tail, not bothering to conceal his self any longer. My patent booted feet sink into the snow where it has not been shoveled aside, throwing me off balance and hindering my stride. The presence behind me grows slowly but surely; I can feel it at my back, like a cresting wave on the verge of descending. I hand reaches out for me and takes hold of my arm, jerking me to a sudden stop. The fingers are firm and unyielding, an inhuman strength contained in within.

I twist to face my captor, using the momentum from his grasp to spin around with as much force as my short stature is capable of. I hope to knock him off-guard by stopping suddenly. I raise a shaky hand; fear blurring my vision and making my heart race so fast that it feels as though it had stopped all together. I get in a few harsh, open-handed, but ultimately ineffective, slaps.

"Lillian! Stop!"

A gloved hand grabs my wrist, a thumb pressing tightly in the sensitive valley of my palm. The heady smell reaches my mind first, bringing me to attention. The tobacco and brandy mix is distinctive, comforting and the familiar voice soaks into me, swamping my mind with a relief that almost leaves me limp.

"Sherlock!" I cry, my voice cracking pitifully. I push on his broad shoulder, feebly. "Bloody hell, you scared me out of my wits. Are you following me?" I'm crying, though the danger has passed, my tears a mix of relief and embarrassment. I can't seem to bring myself to meet his exposing gaze, those keen and intimate eyes.

He moves away from me, our hands outstretched and clasped over the space between us, his thumb kneading into my palm with a disquieting rhythm. "No, I was not stalking you, Lillian. I was, however, following the men who were. They slipped into an alley a few blocks away. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

"Men? There was more than one?" I ask.

"Indeed, about three. That tread you heard belonged to me. Your real stalkers were actually quite near. I'm surprised you didn't hear every footstep."

I collapse into his inexplicably warm chest, emotion overflowing my every pore. I was easily spooked, I knew it, and I was ashamed for him to see that I had not outgrown it even after all these years. His heartbeat is slower, due to the cold; different from the rapid beat I was accustomed to feeling beneath my cheek.

He takes my shoulder tenderly and turns me around, walking me back in the direction of his rooms. I cling to distraughtly to him. "Sherlock," I sputter, losing composure completely, "do you remember when I told you what my father did to me? How I said that in those moments I felt as if the world was lost away and no one would ever save me?" I don't wait for him to respond, speaking to myself, the need to get it off my chest so great that I may have spoken it to the wind if he had not chanced to be there. "I felt the same way the day I realized you were never coming back for me."

He stiffens and then hushes me.


	7. Excerpt from a Diary Pt 2

_Excerpt from a diary_

ﭏ

_I tossed a stone across the tranquil lake, watching in fascination as circles appeared progressively on the top of the water, the smooth, black rock skittering across its face with musical precision. It was my first private outing out with my newfound sister and I was distantly aware of her unexplainably irksome presence somewhere behind me, jumping from rock to rock on the border of the pond. It was warm autumn day and the trees circling the lake dropped copper and orange leaves all around us as the sun blazed yellow in its last moments, skirmishing with the quenching dusk. I searched through the abandoned foliage for another suitable stone, discarding the rounded ones that held less potential. The sun was disappearing one trimming after another, pink ribbons giving way to ginger and ginger giving way to red and so forth. My sister was humming some sort of serenade, I couldn't tell what the tune was as she was obviously butchering it terribly. _

"_Why does your father read the bible so much?" It was the first time she had deigned to speak to me today, finally pulling her Golden Hair head out of the clouds to concede my existence. _

_I glared at her, trying to determine if she were criticizing or just inquisitive. She continued to skip about as if whatever answer I had was really of no importance to her. I tried valiantly to restrain myself from responded to her with a dose of irony but the temptation was just too great. "He's a preacher. If I'm not mistaken, reading the bible is a prerequisite to his calling." She continued her skipping as I treaded around the water, trying to steer clear of getting the bottom of my trousers wet. "Where is your father?" _

"_My father is in Australia." _

_"And why is your father in Australia without you and your mum?" I asked with feigned disinterest. If she were going to behave as my presence was of no great significance to her, than I was certainly not going to give her the impression that she was important to me. I pitched another rock as she scampered into the pond, not even bothering to take off her shoes or socks. I chided her but she scoffed playfully at me, kicking up a spray towards my shins. _

"_He's in prison." _

_The wind stirred, the leaved hopped and skipped about as if dancing and laughing with the breeze. I picked up another stone, weighing its heaviness in the depressed cup of my palm; attempting to deduce how far it would glide over the water's sunlit surface. "In prison for what crime?" _

"_He killed a man with a bar stool." _

_Those words seemed to sink to the ground with the heavy mass of a mossy anchor on the ocean floor. But they were spoken off-hand and she kicked at the water as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I gawked at her for a moment, tying to wet my throat, which seemed to have dried to a clog of desiccated chalk. "Your father killed someone?" _

"_He wasn't a very nice person." _

_"Well, obviously."_

_She ran out of the pond, fast and sudden like a squirrel, stirring up sand around her feet and splashing the water. I sidestepped her, darting quickly out of her reach. "I think your father is absolutely and extraordinarily wonderful, though. Don't you?" _

_I shrugged._

"_He is," she continued, twirling around like a spinning top, her skirt lifting into the air and providing me with a grand view of her stockings and pantaloons. She finally stilled and settled down on the grass with the air of someone exhausted after a bout of hard work, and appeared suddenly interested in me. "He's so kind and warm. He never gets mad." _

_I frowned doubtfully, uncomfortable with her undivided attention and feeling altogether on display under her green eyed gaze. "He certainly does. He'll read the bible at you when he's mad." _

_She pushed herself up, trotting over to me mischievously and with a queer and inelegant step, as if she were jigging her across the loose stones. "Yes but he doesn't do this." She punched humorously at my face, like a boxer. I ducked her hand, though I didn't avoid a few light jabs from her chilled and dirty hands._

"_Stop that."_

_"I'm not going to hurt you."_

_"I didn't think you were." I snapped with as much wounded manly pride I was capable of at such a young age. "You're going to be a complete buggerlugs to me, aren't you?"_

_"Don't call me names."_

_"I won't call you such things, as long as you restrain from acting like such things." _

_She laughed, unexpectedly throwing her skinny arms around my neck. The insides or her elbows were damp from her lake round romp. "I hoped that my new father would have a boy my age." She wrapped her tiny foot around my ankle and pulled with unexpected strength. I tumbled clumsily into the lake, taken by surprise with her unladylike behavior. Sprawling into the water, I glared up at her with as much dignity as I could muster in such an indecorous position. She jumped on top of me before I could rise. I could feel the free pebbles beneath my head and a few half damp and crunchy leaves floating around my hair. "You can hit and kiss boys but you can't do either with girls." _

"_And you can certainly do neither of those things with me!" I exclaimed with more than a bit of huff in my voice, trying in vain to move out from underneath her. She laughed at my resistance. _

"_Yes I can." She asserted, her tone assured and determined, disregarding my objection with the arrogance of a much older lady. "But you are not to hit me back. Mum says that boys are not supposed to hit girls, although she let daddy do it all the time." _

_I stopped struggling against her, my curiosity whetted and that twinge of anger I'd felt when I'd first laid eyes on her wound returning. I nodded at her scar, "Is that how you got that mark? Did your father do that to your?" _

_She tilted her chin back proudly, though I could see the bearings of a terrible memory in her eyes, "Indeed he did, he was as rough as a badger's arse, that what I heard the policemen say when they came to talk to mama." _

_"A lady shouldn't use that language." I warned. "And your father should not have been permitted to hurt you so. Someone should have stopped him." _

_She stared at me for a bit, as if my words made no sense to her but she found them fascinating all the same. She tilted her head quizzically, "I heard your mother was terribly sick. Did she die because she was sick?"_

_I glared at her until she realized I would not answer her nosy and impertinent questions. She pushed off of me, sensing perhaps that her words had upset me, and I scuttled to my feet. I was soaked through and so was she. I brushed at my clothes with a show of being quite affronted, picking a few soggy and sticky leaves from my trousers. _

"_Father will be very, very distressed with us when we return home." I lamented. "We look a mess and your dress is ruined. We were not supposed to go near the water." _

_She seized my hand, her fingers tight. "Come along then. We will go straight home to confess our disobedience to him at once." She consoled with no shortage of humour in her tone. "Perhaps he will read something to us from the bible. I so love the bible." _

_I could not help but to smile at her admirable eagerness and followed silently without quarrel, passively keeping my hand folded with hers. _

"_If you would prefer, Sherlock" she started after a bit, "if I cannot kiss you, then you may kiss me whenever you like." _


	8. Baker Street

From the notes of John H. Watson

ﭏ

Lillian took refuge in our house one day in the same week in which I she first appeared on our step. Holmes brought her in, no bags or personal effects on her. She was strictly forbidden to go back to her rooms; a task that Holmes and I took upon ourselves in the middle of the night in black clothes and masks. We didn't gather much but the necessities. It seemed rather fruitless, in my opinion, to conceal our actions so, since it was obvious that soon enough her whereabouts would be deduced. But I presume Holmes simply wished to have few days, or perhaps even hours, of relative peace before the shadows loomed once again, this time outside our very own doorway.

She took up residence in the maid's room while Miss Alice settled into a temporary sleeping space in the roomy attic. My friend summarily informed me of the circumstances surrounding his sudden bout of protectiveness; that he had finally seen someone shadowing her. He would not admit it to me, but I knew the idea unnerved him. That was the only reasonable explanation for his actions, for her presence did not seem to aid his investigation at all. I think he merely wished to have her under his watchful eye and I suspected that perhaps he was also hoping to force a meeting between him and Miss Holmes' dearly beloved.

The detective spent most of the days obsessively scanning old newspapers for God-knows-what. It became typical, nay, even expected to see him with his dark head buried behind the sepia pages of the international papers. It was odd to see him devouring the news from over seas for Holmes' usual attention was quite firmly and unwaveringly centered on London and, occasionally, its outlying cities. When I inquired of him what he was searching for, he'd wave his willowy hand about, mumbling under his breath about data. He'd finally confessed to me at last on the third day after his sister's impromptu arrival; informing me that he needed more information to work with. "I can't make bricks without clay" - I failed to point out that I'd heard such a platitude from him before because I knew such repetition of pearl covered maxims signaled his mental distraction. Usually he would not accept cases that lacked so much, but when I brought this up he'd informed me, in a fit of anger, that he could not and would not turn away his own sister; would not be the one who allowed her to be harmed.

For the next few weeks, we spent our lives under the same roof, but Holmes and I barely crossed paths with our new inhabitant. She ate breakfast and lunch with Mrs. Hudson and invariably went out with her betrothed for dinner. I almost suspected that the sibling's were avoiding each other on purpose. When they did meet, they were civil but almost frostily reserved. I, for my part, tried to be as warm as I could towards her. She reciprocated and I soon learned that she was a very kind-hearted, sometimes timid, young lady who appreciated conversation. There was a sort of mourning quality in her face; her eyes spoke of someone who'd seen her fair portion of misfortune, perhaps even tragedy. In rare moments, there would pass between the siblings a shared look of understanding, tempered with a subtle tenderness that I knew Holmes would not appreciate knowing I'd observed. Whatever memories they had in common were obviously not pleasant ones. I believe that both were reminded of things rather left forgotten while in each other's presence and this forced them into a mutual evasion of one another.

Holmes seemed to be quite his old self during the day, reading through his newspapers and attempting to make some leeway in this vague and intangible problem. He smoked his cherry wood pipe and even reduced his brandy consumption to a mere glass to accompany the meager portions of bread and cheese that he had the cheek to call his dinner. At night, though, he retreated into a melancholy that was disturbing; shooting his self up with morphine in order to rest. I knew only because I walked in on him as he did so, watching with dismay as he attempted to hide it from me. This shame was new to his usually self-possessed demeanor, and warned me that even he knew that his indulgence was no longer under his control, but that now the drug was asserting its dominance. I feared greatly what harm such a vile influence was wreaking on a mind as sharp and brilliant as Holmes'.

He slept on the couch every night since his sister's arrival. I assumed the drugs were the explanation for this, for when he was under their influence he could hardly move, and seemed nothing like the man whose energy was so unbounded he tired those around him with his mere presence. I'd walk into the sitting room to see him curled up on the couch, still in his day clothes, the Morocco case open next to him. He wouldn't speak to me about it, as was his usual habit. I'd mention it but there was no excuse forthcoming, just silence that warned me I was trespassing into territories fortified by armed guards and battalions.

During the third week of the case, I sat down to dinner by myself. Holmes was out, having been absent the entire day, and Lillian, who habitually ate dinner with Mr. Church, had already departed. I was just pouring myself some tea when the door opened, and the Holmes sister entered the room, pulling at her gloves and eyeing the food. I stood clumsily, unprepared for her appearance. She waved me back into my seat, ridding herself of her thick winter coat and scarf as well. She looked quite fetching that day in a cream and delicately embroidered dress with satin covered buttons lined up the front to her throat. The sharp dip of the waistline emphasized the curve of her corset and hugged her figure in a modest but delightful way.

"Well, good evening, Miss Holmes. How goes your day?"

"_Comme ci comme ça_." She confessed. "Doctor, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Lillian?"

I nodded my head in assent, though we were both aware that her admonition would do nothing to make me call her by so informal a title, and gestured at one of the empty seats. "Would you care to join me for dinner?" She took the seat with small thanks. "You cancelled your dinner plans?" I asked as she settled herself gracefully into the chair opposite mine at the table. I hoped I wasn't being too forward with my questions, but from what I could tell of the Holmes family, propriety was not a strictly observed affair.

She turned her teacup right side up and reached for the water. "No, not so much cancelled my plans as . . . " she stared up at the ceiling for a bit, as if weighing her words, "as I merely made an unexpected exit before the arrival of the main course."

I watched her for a moment, observing that she didn't appear too upset about her disrupted dinner date. I weighed my own words. "Would it be impertinent of me to ask why?" I finally inquired, pouring her a cup of water.

"Of course not, Dr. Watson," she dabbled a little honey into her tea, bringing to my mind her first visit when she'd declined to take it sweet when offered by Holmes. "Our usually polite conversation veered into the territories of my present predicament and my brother's investigation. To be honest, Michael's never been quite convinced that I am not merely imagining things, but I feared he crossed the line when he burst forth with some very unkind words about my brother and your dear friend. I suppose it was mostly to be a jest, but I am a bit sensitive to disrespectful talk about my family, and especially of my esteemed and self-sacrificing brother."

I must have looked a tad angry because she stopped short while bringing her cup to her mouth. "What sort of words might he have had to say about Holmes?" I demanded, forgetting myself for a moment.

"He implied that my inestimable brother was not as clever as he is made out to be. He had some rather disparaged remarks about him and his endeavors. Even ventured so far as to surmise that the detective could only solve cases for which the official police force had already gathered clues. Also made some remark about self-aggrandizing and how it can do wonders for the publicity of a lowly armchair consultant. He told me I should go back to France and stop frittering away my time here." She took a dainty sip that was belied by her firm tone. "I'd never seen cruelty in Michael before, though he admittedly does have a bit of a patronizing streak to him. I told him that I needed time to think things through now that I had seen that side of him and promptly left him there, hopefully to his own embarrassment."

"I take it to mean that you intend to think through the wedding?"

"Yes." She riposted bluntly and settled her cup down with a small clank.

"Holmes has not kept you enlightened about his progress in the case?" I asked, half-hoping that she knew more than I did about his doings. My pride prevented me from admitting to my own uninformed state, and I did not want to dishearten the fair Holmes sister.

"Has there been any progress in the case?" She reached for a roll nonchalantly, but, despite Holmes' doubts about my observational skills, I could see the eagerness of her inquiry by the stiffness of her wrist and the tightness of her shoulders.

"I'm afraid that, to my humble knowledge, there has been no steps forward so far. I in no way mean to support Mr. Church's unworthy and withering claims, but I do believe my good friend has found himself backed into a veritable corner by simple lack of data. I'm sure if he could at least discern a motive behind the events, that would propel him towards an answer."

She began applying a liberal amount of butter to her roll, "I wish I could give him some more information, but all I could grace him with is theories and speculation which I know he abhors."

"Well, I am quite certain that he has his theories about the entire matter. Though, as a general rule, he doesn't voice them - either because he doesn't wish to be made to look a fool if the evidence goes contrary to them, or because he thinks articulating them will bias his judgment." I responded, eager to defend my illustrious friend.

She took a bite of her crumbling bread and chewed thoughtfully. Swallowing, she leaned forward, wiping the sides of her mouth with her napkin. "Well, I do have a theory that I want to voice, if it's alright with you, doctor. It has crossed my mind that perhaps this is all a ploy to get at my brother, and not actually directed at me. Maybe they wished for me to lead them here to him. I have no issue admitting that my brother is a much more likely target for mischief, seeing as he runs with the criminal classes while I am merely a music teacher."

I contemplated her hypothesis for a moment, staring over he head and attempting to pattern my thinking after my friend, the detective's. I could see that Miss Lillian was waiting anxiously for my opinion as if it were greatly valued, something to which I was not accustomed while living with a man with such an undemonstrative nature like Holmes. "Yes, but the fact is, you've been here in London for nearly a month's a time already. Would they not have acted by now if Holmes were the one they were truly after? More to the point, you say they haven't followed you since you came arrived here in the metropolis?" She nodded and I reasoned forthwith, "So it would seem more likely that, if they are indeed aware of your whereabouts, they are actually avoiding the imposing detective instead of targeting him. No, it seems more likely that you are the target and that they are merely waiting patiently for you to retire from here so that they may resume their activities, whatever they may be."

She shook her head with a bit of endearing self-deprecation and smiled sincerely at me, "You are a very quick thinker, Doctor."

I felt myself blush under that admiring gaze. I was not used to commendation and I feared that, at heart, I was just a susceptible to flattery as my lodge mate, "Well, it's a treat to know somebody believes so."

"My brother is not forthcoming with praise?" She questioned.

"I would not list it under his outstanding qualities."

Her eyes softened, her expression taking a sympathetic turn. She was an interesting woman to watch, turning from hesitant and shy one moment, to self-possessed and confident the next. Each mood brought about a different look to her, all of which were prepossessing in their attractiveness. I knew that her and Holmes did not actually share the same parents, but some aspects of their variable personalities bespoke of an even deeper bond than blood. Holmes himself possessed the strange and disconcerting ability to switch moods suddenly and even in his blacker tempers, he was still as captivating and beguiling as he was at his most charming.

"Do not take it as a slight, my dear doctor." She reassured. "If anything you should feel flattered. My brother doesn't draw close to people easily, at least not people he finds too ordinary."

"I am merely an adequate sounding board for him during those rare times in which he finds his thoughts in a tumble." I mumbled modestly, but without affectation.

She shook her head, not to be deterred by my diffidence. "You sell yourself short, doctor. I can see you mean a great deal to him. I never imagined my brother stumbling upon anyone that he would wish to have more than a casual acquaintance with, so its quite a thing to see that he is willing, I daresay, even pleased to be living with you."

"What was Holmes like as a young boy?" It was hard to imagine my friend as an adolescent. In doing so, I assumed he was much like he was now but I knew that was absurd.

She took a bite of her roll, and seemed to search for the right word to describe my friend as a youth.

"Sweet." Was the response she finally settled on and took another bite of her bread.

I scoffed at the thought and she brought a hand up to her mouth, smiling. "You look skeptical doctor. I assume you find that hard to imagine? I can see why you may have trouble with such an idea, but I assure you he was quite the sweetheart, though. Those cold ideas of logic he now seems to possess did not speak as loudly as his heart at that age. He was impulsive and passionate. A bit moody as well. He always had a mercurial temperament; something I'm sure he picked up from his mother and her French blood. He was shy too, at least with those he was unfamiliar with; with those he felt close to, he could prattle on for hours about things he found interesting. My mother found it amusing when he would run to her with some little detail about something he found fascinating; he would chat her ear off as she went about her chores." She paused and gave me an appraising survey with a quick rove of her bright eyes, as if trying to decide if what she wished to say next was prudent. "To be honest," she continued, apparently deeming me discreet enough to trust, "I think Sherlock had a bit of a innocuous adoration for my mother, I'm sure he'd never admit to it, of course."

"They got on well?"

"Extremely. My mother confessed to me when I was older that she sometimes felt inadequate in the face of my stepfather's standards, though he always kind to her. I think she sensed that Sherlock felt the same way. She was exceptionally good at discerning people's feelings." She looked a little wistful, " I wish that I had picked that up from her. But it would seem that she rubbed off on Sherlock more in that respect than she did me."

"I'm sure that's not true and, trust me, Holmes can be a blasted imbecile when it comes to the feelings of those around him, at times." I reassured her. "Speaking of Holmes, did you two ever fight with each other as you were growing up?"

"Oh, of course, when we were younger, over those silly trifling things that children customarily argue over, stolen books and toys and such. As he got older, though, Sherlock acquired that extreme self-confidence in his own opinion that so shades his personality . . . so much so that he didn't ever bother to argue once he knew he was right. He thinks of it as lowering himself. In fact, ironically, the biggest fight we had once we were more mature was when he caught me reading Thoreau one day in secret in the library. He got quite riled up over that. I half-suspected that if he could have snatched the volume from my hand without seeming ungentlemanly, he would have."

"Why would he become so incensed with you simply over your choice of reading?"

'"He hated Thoreau and everything he stood for. Thought the man spoke too much of things he actually knew nothing about - poverty, war, and the like. One thing Sherlock won't tolerate is those philosophers 'in ivory towers', as he calls them, lamenting and pontificating on the blight of the lower classes. Sherlock has a deep sympathy for those in need, some may even say a bleeding heart, but he would never presume to know how to solve their problems while lounging comfortably in the warmth of his sitting room, and he harbors no respect for those who do undertake to sermonize about matters that are as foreign to them as garters are to an unmarried man."

"As garters _should _be to a married man." I corrected her scandalously worded comparison. She blushed in return, as if shocked by my reply.

"Yes," she continued quickly, 'I thought it was amusing that he would get so upset about the views of a writer he'd never met while real offenses against him were ignored. But he was always an odd one, as my mother would affectionately refer to him

"How did your mother pass?" I asked gently.

She ran an absent finger over the ledge of her teacup and looked unabashedly sad for a moment. "I'm afraid my mother was ailed with a weak heart for most of her life. She died in her sleep. She was not very old, not even in her fortieth year when she passed."

"I am so very sorry to hear that. I know how hard it is to lose a parent, my father died ten years ago from consumption."

"Thank you for your sympathy, and I offer my own in respects to your father. It is always a terrible thing to lose a loved one. I don't believe anything makes it easier. I took my mother's death extremely hard. We had shared so much over the years . . . survived so much together." She paused and swallowed. I could tell she was fighting down emotion. "Sherlock felt it too. He'd grown so very attached to her, quite quickly. I think he was a little desperate for a maternal presence. He was, after all, terribly close to his own mother, before she died in such a horrid manner."

My cup stopped short of my lips. "He was?" I asked. I remembered what Holmes had told me, _I do not remember much about her. _

"My brother hasn't spoken to you at all about his real mum?" She asked, looking taken aback and slightly embarrassed by my confusion. I didn't want her to think that she had disclosed something she should not have.

"Only once." I answered.

"Oh, well . . ." She fiddled uneasily with her empty teacup, suddenly uncomfortable. I felt sorry for her awkwardness and searched for something to say to alleviate the tension in the room. I could see that she was hoping for a distraction, something to draw my attention away from her lack of response. She got the distraction she wanted when Holmes entered the room then, stopping slightly at the door as he took in my unexpected company. He looked startled and, had I been a betting man, I would have put money on odds that he would have turned and exited at once if there had been a graceful way to do so.

After a moment, though, he entered fully and greeted her. "Your Michael is absent today?" He shook out his scarf. His overcoat was wet from the outside rain, and his hair fluffed out chaotically when he removed his hat.

She shrugged in response; a habit that apparently ran in the family. She obviously did not wish to discuss her fiancé, or her fight with him.

"Well, I am pleased to inform the both of you that I finally have some good news." He started, drawing a letter from his pocket after removing his coats and situating them in their usual position over the basket chair.

"At last!" The words escaped before I could curb them. Holmes looked at me sharply. "What news have you to divulge?" I asked eagerly, hoping this was the data he had been scrounging for.

"My ardent follower, Mr. Crowe, finally tracked down that specialty paper that Lillian's father composed his apologetic epistle on." He started, removing said paper from his inside suit pocket and fingered it almost reverently. "It's made at a small store named James and Bartley a little east of the prison colony. It is manufactured there and no where else. Quite expensive stuff, at that; hand stitched with silk thread to prevent tearing. I've never seen anything quite like it before. A monograph on paper types and stores would be interesting to research . . ." He trailed off absently, his mind detouring in a way inevitable to such a brilliant man. He shook his head and continued, "I sent a letter to the authorities there, asking for any information on your father," he nodded to Lillian, "and his associates."

He walked to the mantle piece and affixed the paper there with his jackknife. Lillian jumped at the sound but he did not seem to notice. She frowned at his disregard for her property, especially considering how hesitant she was to part with it on her initial visit. She continued to look at him over her shoulder, apparently deciding not to voice her thoughts on that matter.

"You seem very certain that my father has a hand in this in some way. May I ask what the basis for your confidence is?" She asked instead.

He swiveled to face her quickly, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I am only relatively certain of his involvement, but that is expected, considering what miniscule information I have to work with."

"How certain are you then and why?" I blurted out, growing a little annoyed with his vagueness, which seemed aimed only to confuse us.

"I think he knows the men stalking her." He replied to me, as if Lillian were not present, and not directly answering my question. "I think they met in Australia, perhaps at the prison camp. Forgive me, but my level of certainness is not quite quantifiable. At least, not in any way I know how to voice." He finished with no shortage of sarcasm.

"Dr. Watson told me that you have been looking through the newspapers. What ever for?" She inquired. "What are you in search of?"

He directed that sharp gaze onto her, "Looking for any in-progress or newly concluded suspect activity in or about London and Australia by a particular group of questionable personages."

"So you're looking for recent criminal activity?" She summarized shortly.

He looked confused. "I believe I said that."

Lillian simply stared at him. After a moment, she turned back to her dinner. Holmes appeared slightly surprised at our lack of prying, seemingly at a lost, as if the conversation had not gone the way he had been expecting.

A sure blow to the pride of one who so relied on his foresight for his bread and butter.

I went back to my dinner also and noticed him wavering, as if trying to decide something. For a moment I could have swore he even looked nervous. Finally he strode from his spot and took a seat at the table.

He didn't reach for the food at first but procured a cup for himself. I poured him some tea. He carved himself a bit of Mrs. Hudson's delectable Cornish hen and plucked up a biscuit.

"Incidentally," he drawled slowly and nonchalantly, though I was not quite sure of whom he was addressing, "I stopped off for a moment to see Mycroft today at his rooms." He looked expectantly at Lillian out of the corner of his eye, obviously intending his trivial words to affect her in some way. She lifted a modestly manicured eyebrow in his direction.

"Did you?" She responded in the same drawling tone, "Did you speak of anything of interest or importance? I'm sure your brother has many exciting anecdotes and experiences to relate; much can happen on the treacherous commute between his rooms at Pall Mall and his club." She responded smartly.

Quite ungentlemanly, I almost choked on my coffee at her witty cheek. Even Holmes cracked a grin at her comment. The rare sight of his wide and boyish smile seemed to please her.

"Nothing remotely exciting, I'm afraid. He merely summoned me on some business. Some swindler seems to have evaded the London police, as is usual, I'm afraid. I told him I was currently occupied with an important matter. Mycroft has always been more concerned with the problems and concerns of political and governmental matters than those of private individuals. He told me once that most men bring woe upon themselves and that he found hard to summon sympathy for the entanglements that people wind themselves in. I find that strange . . . its as though he doesn't realize appreciate the amount of woe governments bring upon themselves with even more frequency and detriment." He replied offhandedly; then more directly, "He said you've been by there to see him a number of times?"

"He told you that?" She seemed to think about it for a moment, apparently attempting to remember if his claim was valid. "Oh yes, well, I have paid him a visit or two."

"I wasn't aware you'd been to London before this. You led me to believe that this was you first visit into the city."

He sounded a bit irked at her. I wondered if he felt slighted that she had not visited him before, or perhaps he simply did not appreciate her perceived dishonesty.

Her face went stony with irritation. The look was reminiscent of Holmes' own expression when he felt he was victim to an unjustified remark. "I don't remember saying that. Nor do I remember attempting to _lead_ you to believe anything. I visited Mycroft twice, I believe. The last time I came to inform him of my engagement."

"And he allowed you entrance into his club?" Holmes sounded on the verge of being amazed. Mycroft's gentleman club was unusual, to say the very least, and enforced very strict rules about what was and was not allowed in their organization. All counted among the weaker sex were unequivocally not allowed. Holmes had remarked once how odd he thought it to be to bar women from clubs, when women were invariably the topic of conversation in such organizations. I'd pointed out that, given that he was right, then it would actually make quite a lot of sense to bar women. He'd then, surprisingly, commented that he did not understand why men wished to speak so much on the matter women, when it was so much more refreshing to speak to women. That was a remark that had always remained in my mind, for it was so very unexpected from a man that the press had painted as a misogynist.

"Mycroft? Allow a noisy women into his haven?" Lillian replied sardonically, "Heavens no! He came outside to speak to me."

Holmes' eyes widened. "He came outside?" He sounded even more amazed than before. Mycroft varying from his routine or making concession for anyone was akin to the earth being tipped off course by a falling cricket ball.

"And why wouldn't he? Am I not his sister also? It's not too much to ask, though some may have found it to be so." She sounded a tad upset with her brother's tone, and I could not help but wonder if her last words were targeted quite directly at her stepbrother.

Holmes picked at the bird on his plate, picking up a bit between his fingers and popping it into his mouth. He didn't respond to her insinuation. "How did he react to the news?" He asked instead.

A wide, sincere smile spread across her sprightly face, furnishing her with a becomingly youthful look. "You know his decidedly severe views on the entire subject of marriage. He said absolutely nothing, merely bestowed me with that _look_ of his and ambled back into his club."

Holmes laughed with uncharacteristic vigor at the account and I could not shake off the impression that I was left out of some private joke. "What look?" I asked, curious to know what was so funny and feeling particularly excluded from the conversation. Holmes' laughing died down when he caught sight of my confused expression.

"I'm sorry, old man." He apologized, and swatted at my hand. "Lillian will explain it to you." He told me, and then fell silent to allow his sister to talk, which was more than unusual for Holmes.

"When we were younger," Lillian explained, "and we were on the verge of doing something exceptionally stupid, Mycroft would give us this look that always worked to stop us."

"I'm confident to say that my dear, angelic sister here was on the receiving end much more frequently than myself." Holmes stated, a teasing tone in his voice and a sparkle in his eye.

Her mouth dropped open in horror at his words. "That's a complete lie and you know it!" She leaned forward, "I was not." Se assured me, as if my opinion of her was quite important. She redirected her attention back at her brother, still looking annoyed. "You were always there right beside me. Except once, when you should have been but managed to get out of it."

I urged her to elaborate; despite the threatening looks that Holmes was casting in both of our directions. It had been awhile since I'd shared secrets with anyone, an activity I used to engage in with my late brother, before he drunk himself into an early grave.

"We were...how old were we then?" She looked to her brother for help but he merely frowned her at, a warning in his eyes. His glare did not seem to deter her at all and she went on. "I think we were eleven or twelve, yes, we must have been. We were living on the manor in Yorkshire, and our parents had gone out to . . . was it the opera?" She fell to musing for a brief moment before her face lit up, "Yes, it was the opera, a production of Puccini's Rodin. I remember because I had asked to go with them and Sherlock's father had told me that it was too romantic for my age." She directed her attention fully on me now that she had settled that trivial point in her mind. "We decided one night, while they were away, to engage in . . . I guess you would call it an experiment. At least, that's what Sherlock coined it when he convinced me to participate. He laid out all his bed sheets and pillows on the lawn beneath his window, second story window, mind you, and we planned on taking turns jumping down onto them."

"My word." I murmured, beyond amused and a tad horrified at such recklessness. Though, knowing Holmes, it was not much of a surprise. I glanced over at him and saw that he had acquired a loosely sheepish look.

"Well, darling Sherlock, being the true gentleman that he is, was gracious enough to allow me to go first." She frowned suddenly at him, as if just now realizing that her stepbrother's motives had been less than honorable at the time. "So, I accepted and _intrepidly_ lunged right off...and into my big brother Mycroft's waiting arms. Sherlock here scampered back into the window and pretended as if he had absolutely nothing to do with it, while I stared at wall for ten minutes as punishment. And that punishment was separate from the talking to I received from mother when she was told what I was 'up to' while she'd been gone." She looked at her brother, "What exactly were you doing up in your room while I was being disciplined?"

"I was listening through the floor . . . then I worked on some chemistry once I was sure that Mycroft wasn't tearing your head off."

"How kind of you to be concerned."

Holmes smiled outright, "You never told on me. You could have acted the nark and ratted me out if it bothered you that much."

"You knew I wouldn't. Though, I always suspected that Myrcoft knew very well that you were involved and was punishing me somehow for my loyalty to you."

"Well," Holmes began, licking his thumb of butter without an ounce of manners and not seeming as upset now that the story was out there, "You may have gotten some quiet time but Mycroft would not have failed to lash me if he'd known I'd had anything to do with it. He was always much easier on you. Despite his supposition that all women are evil, he was awfully considerate of you and his perceived frailties of your gender."

Lillian laughed as Holmes rolled up his sleeves to reach for another roll, "Mycroft lashed you because he knew it was the only thing that really got to you." She watched him as he licked his thumb again, an odd look on her face that was not disgust or offense.

"It would get to you too, I'm sure, if you couldn't sit down for hours. He was brutal with that belt. He seemed to find it hard to delineate between just punishment and torture. But . . . _un homme peut-il amasser du feu dans son sein sans ses vetêments soient consumés_? We should not risk that which we cannot endure."

Despite Holmes' ability to turn even the most trivial topic into a dramatic lesson in life, I allowed myself to release the laugh that had been gathering at the picture I envisioned.

"Yes, well, those days are far behind us now," she continued, the softening of her voice the telltale sign of wistfulness. "Now your mind is set to much more constructive endeavors, I'm sure. Have you had any interesting cases lately?"

The lines of Holmes' face reworked themselves into a blatantly brooding look. He sipped his tea, ignoring her question. Lillian caught my eye over the table, confusion in the depth of her expression.

"Actually," I interjected, in a falsely cheery voice to overshadow the tension and my companion's bad temper, "I'm just finishing up the notes on a very interesting case. The young Stoner girl," I reminded Holmes, "and her dastardly stepfather? I'm sure Miss Holmes would find the whole narrative quite fascinating. That is, if she is not easily disturbed by murder and violence . . . " I added hastily, remembering myself.

The young lady smiled oddly at me, "I can assure you that my feminine sensibilities can handle quite a bit."

I remembered what Holmes had informed me about her father and his less than amiable disposition and felt foolish. She didn't allow me to wallow in discomfiture. "Tell me about the case, Sherlock." She took his hand, squeezing it encouragingly where it lay on the table. He stared at their entwined fingers until she detangled them from his and folded her hands back in her lap.

The awkwardness was palpable.

"I don't remember much about the case. The particulars of an investigation are generally blurry to me after the passing of time." He eluded and then fell quiet again.

The sudden urge to reprimand him for his sulking was strong but I resisted. He was a grown man, and I was not responsible for his social behavior.

"If you'd like," I told her, "I can let you read the case tomorrow once I get it in order."

"That sounds splendid." She answered, apparently use to her brother's manners.

"I'll give you a foretaste." I whispered eagerly, "there are gypsies, cheetahs, snakes, and -"

I was cut short when I saw the serious look that crossed Lillian's face. Something had caught her attention; I followed her gaze until I noted she had gotten a good glimpse at the numerous puncture marks that adorned the stretch of skin of the underside of my good friend's arm. She tried to look away quickly but he caught her stare. Instead of hiding, though, he merely went about what he was doing, somehow masterfully ignoring the uncomfortable silence that had settled over the table.

It angered me for some reason, to see that detached look on his face. Holmes could be indifferent about a great many things. However, I had noted throughout of association together, that when it came to issues that truly mattered, Holmes had an unexpectedly thoughtful streak to him that moved him to reassure and settle matters with alacrity. But now, he did not seem moved at all to explain or reassure his stepsister.

After a moment or two of strained silence, Lillian gently dabbed her mouth and pushed her chair back from the table. She regarded Holmes before standing, "May I borrow your Petrarch? I have a desire to read before bed." She took her brother's silence as assent and rose. I stood as a gentleman customarily should, but Holmes did not. After receiving the plain bound volume from amongst Holmes numerous criminology books, she bid us goodnight and left the room. My companion followed her with his eyes, watching her go but saying nothing to her.

He stood as soon as the door was closed and I held my breath to see if he would go to the dreaded Morocco case. He lingered by the drawer, but retrieved his violin instead, much to my relief, and struck a few chords while standing in the middle of the room, his shadow cast across the curtain in the warm gaslight.

"Why was Lillian not out tonight?" He asked after a few minutes, his bow moving over the chords but not touching them, as if he were playing silent music in his mind.

"From what I can gather, she and Mr. Church had a decidedly heated dispute and she left dinner abruptly." I answered, wiping my mouth with the edge of the linen.

"Abruptly left?" He echoed, speaking more to himself than to me. "Is the marriage off?"

"I am not sure." I shrugged. "Lovers often fight; it doesn't necessarily mean plans have been cancelled. You know how it is."

He cocked an eyebrow at my statement and ran his bow over the strings. The fireplace cast his shadow on the wall.

He had no idea how it was.

"Your sister . . . " I began hesitantly, "is . . . " I coughed and gathered my thoughts more coherently at seeing the impatient look on his face. "She seems quite _pained _in some indefinable way."

A slim eyebrow rose but he took his gaze from me and fiddled with the tuning instrument on his violin. "Pain has that element of blank." He murmured.

"Because it cannot recall when it began or if there was a time when it was not." I finished for him, which earned me an unfathomable stare. "I do not mean to make light of the entire thing, Holmes, especially considering what you have intimated to me about her childhood, but the sorrow I see in her is sublimely beautiful to me."

He did not look at me. In fact, he seemed to very well do his utmost to pretend as if he hadn't heard my statement at all. The words were left hanging between us, vibrating like some living thing, in an uncomfortable and tense way that I had not at all intended.

"Do you have a theory about this case, Holmes, which you are keeping to yourself?" I asked after a length, attempting to change the subject from my apparently raw and unwelcome compliment.

"It is a mistake to theorize before facts, Watson."

"But you do have a theory."

"I have my suspicions."

"Would you care to share them?"

He sighed. "Not particularly, no." He ceased all movement suddenly and slowly lowered the instrument to his side, holding the precious instrument by its neck loosely, keeping his gaze fixed on the fire. "I believe that someone is outside."

I glanced at the window; the curtains were drawn and I had no idea how he was aware what was going on beyond them in the black and white swirl on the London winter night. I knew he was right, because I had witnessed those sorts of unexplainable declarations before. Some who didn't know him as well as I would even assume that he was indubitably clairvoyant and I am quite sure that he could have made a very good living sitting behind a table, dazzling people with his deductions and letting them believe it was some sort of special sight he possessed. Anyone who knew him though, could tell you confidently that any sort of magical mumbo-jumbo was detestable to him.

"Someone is watching the house?" I asked quietly, as if my words could carry beyond the Baker street walls.

"Yes." We were silent for a long moment as Holmes continued to stare straight ahead, as if listening to something only he could hear. A log shifted in the fire and seemed to draw his attention. With that he raised his instrument and played a hauntingly mournful dirge well into the night.


	9. Excerpt from a Diary Pt 3

_Excerpt from a diary_

ﭏ

_It was thirteen days after she moved into our North Riding manor that she first snuck into my room under the pall of night. Unnerved by the thunder, she crept into my bed as I stared at her, rendered speechless by this new turn. She lay uneasily next to me; asking no permission and offering no explanation for her behavior, the flatness of her chest accentuated by her shallow breathing and the thin cotton of her sleeping chemise. She was still as death, only moving with slight skittish jumps every time the lightning splintered the sky with the sharp crack of a pistol shot. _

_As the pallid blue light raced across the sky I saw her pale face. The telltale moisture of tears gathered in the crook of her eye, and lazily descended sideways towards her small, curved ear. I lifted my hand, blotted at the droplet as it fell with an unrestrained fascination. I felt the warm moisture spread onto the pad of my finger and I touched it to my mouth, tasting the salt and the thin, indescribable texture of tears, as if I needed to prove to myself that she were sincere in her distress. _

_She looked at me strangely then, as if she hadn't expected me to react with such silence. I wondered if she had prepared herself for my anger. _

_Her eyes seemed to be blue during the night and I wondered if I had been erroneous about their color initially. It was the first time I was uncertain about something so simple, but I felt an oddly contented sensation at not knowing everything about her. I asked her if she were all right; she merely wiped away her tears with her the sleeve of her nightdress and curled up on her side, pressing her face against my shoulder, looking up at me with questioning eyes. I didn't know what she needed. I let her lay there until she fell into a deep sleep that left her almost immovable. _

_Following that incident, she would slink into my room every-time it stormed outside; and then it started happening even on clear nights. I would wake up to see her slight form slipping through the door and tiptoeing across the room, while the bright summer moonlight spilled into the window and over the soft carpet and warm bedspread. In the glow of the stars I could see that on those nights, she was still crying but not because of anything that lay outside the walls of North Riding. I let her slide under the covers every time without a word or a question, grimacing lightheartedly as her cold feet sought out heat from my warm ones and she wrapped her skinny arms around my waist. I knew somehow that she was needful of my silent presence. In some way it flattered me to think that she felt close enough to me to seek comfort from me. _

_And a large part of me felt strong affection for her in return. It was unusual for me to feel so close to someone whom I hardly ever talked to. Though, I suppose, two children do not have very many ponderous things to discuss for the most part. But it was strange to me - this craving to be close to someone who had nothing to teach me. Perhaps it was too cold of me to view things in such a way. Even to myself, it was frightening to realize that at such a tender age, I'd already begun to retreat behind that façade of analytical detachment that I would grow to abhor even as I prided myself on it. But the truth was, I drew closer to those who could teach me, it was a more practical. _

_Father had his unswerving beliefs, his sense of The Other. He taught me of that terrifying and sublime world, of the holiness and the decency of something elevated. He educated me in poetry and prose; he showed me the true depth and the extraordinary, if silent, power of compassion. He taught me the qualities that a man needed to possess in order to be, not just a man, but a good man; qualities that I would strive and consistently fail to manifest in my own life with sometimes devastating consequence. _

_Mycroft, for his part, taught me all the wisdom of science. I learned from him how to hone my skills and how to apply them to the people I saw and observed in everyday life. He taught me the dangers of flights of fancy, and warned me against those diverting and futile will-o'-the-wisps of the imagination. He bought me my first chemistry set, and read to me from the law books in an attempt to guide my interest towards being a representative for his beloved government. My failed submissiveness in that area was never completely forgiven by him. _

_My mother, I feel, though, taught me the most. She saw the world as no one else saw it. That attention to detail that I possessed, which I would eventually tame and submit to my will, was tenfold in her. And it was enhanced to a detrimental degree by her rampant emotionalism. She not only saw all, she felt all. To her, every aspect of life preordained something - or meant something beyond what it was on the outside. There was no straightforward action, or pure object; the curves of my violin spoke to her, played a role of extreme importance and represented something that no one else comprehended and she did not quite know how to articulate. Perhaps it was already the madness taking hold of her, or perhaps this quality brought on the madness. I'm not sure, nor do I like to think on it too much. After her passing, Mycroft bundled me up even more in his cocoon of science and objectivity. I knew why . . . I knew what he feared, though I would never voice it to anyone. Voicing it would make it true. _

_But I did learn from her. She could read into every laugh; all words and movement, to her, were layered and satiated of meaning. She taught me to see the world as she saw it, to glimpse everything for what it was from every angle or aspect - from the blue hue of the sky to the clutch of my fingers at the material around her hip. She could see all and knew the world from inside out; almost like the God my father spoke so often of...but still so humanly flawed. That almost supernatural vision of hers never dimmed even after that sick strange darkness crept into her light eyes and shrouded her from me._

_Lillian could teach me none of these things. All she knew of was toys and games. Her favorite pastime of dressing up her dolls served no practical purpose to me. It meant nothing - enlightened me to no aspect of the world, except perhaps innocence. Of course, looking back I understand now that she had much to show me that I just couldn't see or understand at the time. Perhaps she even taught me the most revealing thing of all; she taught me of myself, of the person I was beyond all my affectation and feigned manners. And looking back, at times I desperately wished I had been able to avoid such a lesson._


	10. Disquiet

From the memoirs of John H. Watson

ﭏ.

The yellow winter sun rose and flashed harshly across the lids of my closed eyes, drawing me out of my disturbed sleep and disconcerting dreams. I rolled over lazily and noted the clock. I had only slept for five hours. I flung off the coverlet and stared at The low ceiling above my head, gathering my resolve for the day.

Finally pushing myself reluctantly out of the bed, I gathered my clothes and dressed quickly, anxious to see what had become of my friend since his slip into melancholy last night and a bit anxious for a draught of warming tea. The cool air bit at my toes and shoulders as I readied myself.

Entering the equally cold sitting room, I observed that Mrs. Hudson had already set breakfast, though it was untouched. The man I shared rooms with lay sprawled on the sofa, his back to me and a discarded copy of Whitman's Leaves of Grass on the floor beside him. I pressed a hand to the coffee pot, feeling that it was at least still warm, though the eggs and rashers had already cooled. I glanced at Holmes, who hadn't stirred, apparently in so deep a sleep that he had not heard my movements.

His arm lay tossed over the back of the couch and the tale-tell sign of his up-rolled shirtsleeve confirmed to me that my closest friend had succumbed once again to that vile drug that helped him through hard times. And apparently not just the drug, as I noticed that the decanter of brandy was empty, and the small bottle of Linie akvavit he received from a grateful Norwegian man he'd helped a few years prior, was opened and half-empty.

I poured a bit of coffee and settled down to breakfast; determined not to yield to the growing concern I felt in my chest. I was a physician, it was true, but I had learned long ago that it was near impossible to convince Holmes of the benefits of any medical advice. Even in the rare cases when he was subject to common ailments, I was hard pressed to convince him to lay low and rest so that he could heal. In fact, it had seemed at times that my insufferable roommate went out of his way to disobey my orders. And in the case of his stimulants, that was never truer.

I had more than once seriously considered tossing that horrid morocco case and its contents out of the bay window or perhaps crushing those delicate vials and syringe under my boot heel; sometimes I still entertained those thoughts, but I refused to caution my stubborn friend about the effects of the drugs any more. His mulish refusal to see wisdom and act in a manner befitting of a man possessing so much common sense, all made me diffident and backwards in crossing him.

Besides, any words of admonition or concern would be ignored. So to discuss it would be a waste of both our valuable time and breath.

As I was spreading Mrs. Hudson's delectable peach jam onto my slice of morning toast, though, I could not but shoot quick glances at my friend's sleeping form. Holmes was wearing the same clothes as the night before, sans his overcoat and jacket, which were rumpled and crushed by his curled up position. The unsettling thought that he looked as still as death crossed my mind for a horrible moment. I shook my head and rid myself of such an idea. His chest was moving, so he was obviously still among the living.

The stillness and shallow breathing of my acquaintance still concerned me greatly and halfway into my tea, I debated whether I should rouse him, at least to see if I could or not. I wondered how cross he'd be if I woke him. I had to admit to a certain fear of his anger, though he was hardly prone to fits of noisy anger or violence. But I hated to think that I would displease him in some way, and that sharp mind of his made him capable of biting, and often accurate, comments and observations.

I fidgeted in my place; staring at the unconscious man I called my closest friend. I rose from my seat, my affection for my roommate finally overriding my hesitancy to annoy him. Besides, I reasoned, it was not as if I were going to lecture him about his behavior, I was merely going to check his pulse to be sure he was not on the verge of a heart attack. There was no conceivable way in which he could find fault with that. Before I could move around the corner of the table, however, Holmes shifted a bit, arching his back and uttering a noise that was a cross between a whimper and a groan that was troubling to hear. His head drew up from under his arm and settled on the armrest of the couch. I could see his sharp profile, with the light filtering in and casting a glow onto his face. There were deep lines under his eyes and tightness to his jaw even at rest. He looked as though he'd aged a good ten years in the past night alone.

Now standing, I wondered what to do now that I could rest assured that my companion was still breathing and capable of movement. Holmes was not usually knocked out so sufficiently by his frequent doses of cocaine or morphine. I wondered if the volatile mix of spirits and drugs were affecting him negatively, or perhaps he had injected himself with a higher dosage than usual. Either way, his actions revealed a recklessness that even Holmes was not usually prone to.

I sauntered nonchalantly to the mantle-piece and ran a hand over the valued case that housed my friend's cherished syringe and vials, curious to see if I could deduce the percentage that Homes had indulged in during the early morning. It was unusual behavior for him to treat himself to his drug while investigating a mystery. It was the norm for his exhilaration from a case to elevate him past the need for artificial stimulants. The adrenaline of natural thrill was even stronger than the chemicals, and due to this, Holmes was usually indifferent to the drugs while working. It was odd, even frightening, for him to behave in such a way as he was now.

A tired voice cut into my thoughts, carrying through the space with a lazy, drawn-out clarity that startled me. "It was only the usual seven-percent solution, my dear Watson. You can stop hovering about like some bloody, clucking mother hen."

I jumped, and proceeded to take a moment to school my features so that he would not see my surprise. I straightened the hem of my jacket, trying my very best to appear nonplussed as I turned to face the couch and its evidently moody occupant. I crossed my arms and waited patiently for him to speak first. Holmes' eyes were still closed, though his face was turned in my direction as if he knew exactly where I stood without seeing me.

He arched a dark and elegant eyebrow. His long eyelashes shrouded his grey eyes as he cracked them open to stare impassively at me for a moment, taking in my rigid stance with a quick, neutral glance. "I said you could stop hovering over me now, Watson."

"Yes. I believe that you already mentioned that." I retorted slowly, trying to gauge his mood and foresee his reaction to my concern. I still did not move from the mantle-piece, uncomfortable that I had been caught snooping.

Those sharp, grey eyes closed again and Holmes snuggled more into the couch, a bitter half smile marring his features. "I know, but it bears repeating apparently." He replied lazily, stretching his neck until a resounding pop echoed through the room.

A moment passed before I decided to throw myself to the lions once more, if only to honor my duty as a doctor. "I know I am merely saying the same thing that I have said a thousand times before but…. as a physician, albeit a humble one…"

Holmes laughed shortly, cutting into my words with sharp insolence, "A very humble one."

I flushed up to my roots with indignation and embarrassment at the disparaging remark, turning from him in an effort to restrain myself from lashing back at him in kind.

Though Holmes did not move or open his eyes, the sudden stiffness of his shoulders betrayed his own regret at his careless words. "You must forgive me, old man," he apologized after a moment, "that was unfair of me. I'm not thinking straight, I'm half-cut and tired."

"No, no, by all means, if that is how you truly feel." My response was suffused with more than a smidge of huffiness, though I am certain that I was quite justified.

Holmes moved to look at me. He began to speak before the door swung open, leaving what the morose detective was thinking unsaid. The patient and long-suffering Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, the day's mail in her hands. She passed the correspondences over to me after a moment's hesitation, casting a cutting eye over my friend's disheveled appearance. At her questioning glance in my direction, I shook my head, not bothering to hide my irritation from the astute landlady.

"Many of those telegrams are from the Yard, but I sent Billy to inform them that you were occupied and that they should not expect an answer anytime soon. I assume that was acceptable to you?" She asked her young tenant. He waved her off with a nod of his head.

She exited quietly, averse to getting tangled into any kind of talk with Holmes while he was so obviously in a black mood. Through years of intimate acquaintance, the Scotswoman had become quite acclimated to her moody lodger and his ways.

Holmes glared at the door through which she'd disappeared, as if resentful that she had left him alone with my simmering anger and me. He finally stood shakily, stretching out like a cat until his muscles shook with relief. He shifted through the correspondence. He held up a letter to me in one large hand, throwing it to me. "Could you read that?" I caught the envelope clumsily, shocked that he would have such audacity to order me about after failing to adequately apologize for his earlier rudeness.

He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and wetted his lips as I tore open the post, annoyance apparent in my movements. He did not seem to notice, or pretended not to.

I read the letter silently to myself, taking extra time simply to aggravate him, and then tossed it back to him defiantly. I was in no mood to follow after his every beck and call. He was unprepared for my action, and swiped at the paper as it soared through the air towards him but missed it entirely. It landed on the table in front of him. He glared at me, or rather, at the letter, before picking it up and scanning it.

An eyebrow arched gracefully as he read. He murmured under his breath, that characteristic hum that was inscrutable.

"Do you think anything it reveals is important in any way?" I inquired. Holmes' fervent admirer from Down Under had informed us that Mr. Douglas had suddenly become deadly ill. He was bed-ridden in his house, and being cared after by a nurse. He had visited the man personally, under the pretense of merely seeing how his former inmate was faring on the outside world, and had seen for his own eyes that the man was quite incapacitated.

"I think the information would be of great significance if he was in possession of any substantial amount of funds."

"Well, does he have any?"

"The truth of the matter is that Douglas was never especially adept at keeping a firm hand around his money for any significant amount of time. Any funds he ever did happen to acquire were quickly squandered away on his superfluous extravagances and some other….various services."

I fell into deep thought, worrying my lip in an attempt to focus on the matter at hand. I forced my mind to work, trying to use my friend's methods to come up with something brilliant. "His stationary seems to be very expensive…is that not a telling fact?" This thin deduction was the best thought I could come up with.

"That would normally lead me to believe that he was financially secure. But, in the case of this man, it may just as well be that he is living outside his means. It would not be the first time that Douglas spent money that he actually did not have." A thoughtful look came over his face and he jotted down a quick telegram in a shaky hand and stuffed it into his trouser pocket.

I was going to ask him what he was up to, but Lillian appeared in the threshold before I could even begin to speak, her curvy figure seeming almost fragile in the large space of the doorway. She stared at her brother for a bit, casting me a sidelong glance once she detected the tension on the room and the intense look upon Holmes' face. After a moment of silence, she asked him tersely if there were any new developments in the investigation.

"Your father is dying." He responded abruptly, his voice neutral to the point of coldness.

She simply stared at him, while I flinched inwardly at the blunt wording of the information.

"Alright, and this concerns me in what way?" Her throaty voice held no emotion.

"Do you know what his financial status is at present?" My friend took a long drag of his newly lit cigarette and blew out the blue smoke above our heads, squinting at her with that particularly searching gaze that was peculiar to him.

She shrugged, looking a bit annoyed that he was quizzing her on her knowledge of her estranged father. "He never kept a firm hold on his money."

He stared at her for a while, as if weighing his next move. He moved to the couch, retrieving his coat. "Are you going out with your Michael today?" He asked casually.

She visibly bristled at his nosy question. "Yes, we are rendezvousing to go for a walk later this afternoon. Why do you ask?"

"Where does your Michael work?"

She sighed softly at his random questions. "He works in stocks on Norburry Street; at the Parker's business. Why do you ask?" The inquiry was forceful this time but Holmes ignored it and her subsequent annoyance.

"Mr. Church must be quite a fascinating man, seeing as he was able to woo you. I'd like to meet him at some time."

She fidgeted suddenly with her gloves and I wondered if she were nervous about what her brother would think of her beau. Or perhaps she heard a strain of patronization in his cheeky praise of her fiancé.

She took a deep breath. "I suppose I could bring him by tomorrow."


	11. Excerpt from a Diary Pt 4

_Excerpt from a diary._

_During the seemingly brief period of my stepmother's good health, she was quite fond of throwing dinner parties. These she organized with class and moderation. I found them surprisingly comfortable. Only those of the closest association were extended an invitation and the usual customs were ignored. If one wished to dance, they may dance but if not, they were not expected to. This arrangement suited me just right. If all my experiences of social forays were as unrestrictive as these were, I suspect I would not have balked so at attending them. Cecily confided to me once, that her need for gaiety balanced my father's solemnity. This lighthearted approach to life carried over to her approach towards social gatherings and created a pleasant and easy demeanor amongst all guests. _

_Standing atop the twisting staircase that graced the foyer during these numerous gatherings, I would revel in the welcome distraction of astonishing Lillian with my ability to presume the traits and particulars about the party guests. She would giggle when I said something sardonic, a bad habit I had fallen into but only engaged in while my father's attention was diverted. She was too young at that time to tell when she was being fed pure twaddlespeak, as I on more than one occasion resorted to so as not to disappoint her when my inexperienced eye was, in truth, not honed sufficiently as to discern any facts related to the adults about me. Though, I'm not sure I could have disappointed her; she was quite charmed with me and, while I do no think that was the reason she hung on my every word, I believe it may have been contributory to her whole-souled belief in every word out of my perfidious little mouth. _

_She had once attempted to impress me with her meager knowledge as we stood there with our small hands wrapped about the warm railing, whispering some trivial thing that she had learned from her tutor about the sun helping the flowers grow in my ear, her breath smelling sweetly of tea and apricot jam. Somewhere in my mind I was aware of the fact, but carried on a good show of acting as if I were not and that neither cared nor would at any time in the foreseeable future. She'd been upset with my indifferent attitude and had demanded to know why I was not remotely curious about what she had to teach me. _

_"Because it serves no practical purpose for me to why flowers grow at this juncture in my life." I had responded, vaguely amused at her irritation._

_"And what practical purpose does it serve to know what strangers do for a living at this juncture in your life?"_

_I'd smiled at her, because I knew she hated when I did so while in the midst of a tiff. "At this juncture in my life . . . it entertains me. Whereas flowers do not."_

_She'd cast her eyes up to the heavens with a strangely adult exasperation at my cheekiness and my stealthy father had found us then, displeased that we had been huddled and talking about the visitors again; 'gossip mongering" as he termed it. Simultaneous fear and excitement fell upon us when we felt his large hands fall on our shoulders. He berated us gently of the way a child's behavior redounds upon its parents reputation and beckoned us to the library to council us with verses from the Good book. He read us scriptures about busy-bodying and being kind to your fellow man. Lillian's warm and shaky hand found her way into mine but my father paid no mind; we were twelve at the time, and allowed these small shows of endearment._

_The soft rasp and rustle of taffeta introduced Cicely. After the brief sermon that was dished out to us delinquent adolescents, she stood behind the couch with her warm and small hands resting on our shoulders. She urged my father to go easy; speaking in our defense with one of those crooked smiles that I had soon learned were natural to her. She tousled my hair when she saw me staring up at her; I continued to do so, running my eyes over the underside of her jaw, noting every detail. Lillian spoke up then; asking to hear the story of David and Goliath. She had always wanted to hear that story; grasping my fingers in excitement as it was read to her, though she knew how it ended. Even at that tender age, I'd already drawn the well supported conclusion that rarely, if ever, did the 'underdog' ever emerge on two feet, victorious in battle. No, crawling from beneath the overdog, bruised, bleeding and gasping for breath, was more accurate. Or worse, never emerging at all, as my mother did not when life decided to pick a fight with her. _

_And thusly, David and Goliath did not interest me. _

_This particular night Lillian stopped my father midway through his colorful and passionate reading of the account. "Papa," she'd asked timidly, her quiet voice barely breaking through his sure narration as she used the familiar term she'd quickly adopted for him. He stilled, settling his sympathetic eyes on her._

_"Papa, how big was Goliath?" _

_My father's eyes met his wife's; something snaking through them that I was not mature enough to recognize. But even at this age I was perceptive enough to know that Lillian was on the verge of weeping, though I could not fathom why the description of David and his battle would disturb her so, after so many times hearing it._

_My father leaned down to her, sympathy and that innate fellow feeling overflowing from his brown eyes. "Only as large as your fears, my dear." He winked at her and she smiled through the wetness of her tears._

_Her hand clutched mine desperately._


	12. Pieces of a Journal Pt 2

Pieces of a journal

My evening walk with Michael is awkward, to say the very least. He apologizes for his careless words the night before and I accept passively, still unsettled by his degrading attitude to Sherlock. I daresay I think he is intimidated by the knowledge of who my brother is. It seems to be a trend among the male persuasion to develop an unhealthy rivalry towards those who excelled in any important area. My brother is world renowned, his pocket book is well fed, and his services and attention are coveted and elite. I fear Michael envies such things, particularly if Sherlock's relatively younger age is taken into account. He mocks the detective's reputation, though he is quick to apologize when he sees how it angers me.

He tugs his bowler hat down onto his auburn hair and smiles sweetly at me as we walk down The Strand. We haven't yet decided if we will take in a show, and if I am perfectly honest with myself, I do not really wish to prolong the evening any more than necessary. My thoughts are disconcertingly focused on my stepbrother - his scarred arms and the way he looked as he licked clean his calloused thumb.

"Is your mystery solved?" Michael thankfully cuts into my thoughts.

I take his arm with a deep inhalation that coincides with my inner resolve to think not on Sherlock again this night.

I easily fall into step with him. Michael's height barely tops my own. It was something that actually aggravated me a great deal when he'd first asked to court me. Despite his looks, it bothered me that I could look him in the eye without effort. In all truth, I'd actually considered rejecting him on that point alone, before my common sense kicked me squarely in the shins.

"Not yet. But we are coming along nicely, I believe." I answer with a wide smile that I hope masks my inner restlessness.

"Really? Is that so?" He murmurs, staring at the Gaiety theater and its advertisements for their production of Dorothy. "Doesn't your brother usually claim to finish cases much quicker? Some within a day, I heard." He states as he move away from the doors, apparently not interested in attending the show, which relieves me considerably.

I studiously ignore the implication of his calculated wording - as if Sherlock's redoubted reputation was all brag and bounce; carefully concealed ballyhoo created by the detective himself to advertise his wanting skills.

"It depends on the case. You can't expect each problem to follow the same course. And in all honesty, Michael, nothing criminal has taken place. In fact, I suppose you could even say that any stagnation in the case is due to my own vagueness…" I sigh and look away, uneasy with my role as defender. "On another note, he has finally asked to make your acquaintance."

"Well, I will be sure to oblige him as soon as possible. After all, I would not want to make a bad impression on the great Sherlock Holmes. Especially knowing how devoted you are to your him."

I hope he does not notice my smile falter.

He wraps his thick arms around me. Due to the cold of the winter afternoon, we are quite literally alone on the street. I rest my chin on his shoulder and am once again unsettled by his height. I'd settled myself to this issue; become accustomed to it a long while ago but suddenly...Sherlock was tall. I had to strain my neck to look up at him if he stood to close to me during conversation. Sometimes during our more intimate moments I felt I was addressing the soft underside of his chin more than I was addressing him. I would never have been able to rest my chin on his shoulder.

Once I start, I can't resist the temptation of further comparisons. Michael is much stockier; I can easily slip my arms about his shoulders but cannot very easily reach all the way around his broad form. Sherlock I had always been obliged to hug about the waist. Though he had spontaneously lifted me under the underarms once to kiss me without leaning over. I felt overpowered by Michael, but not as secure as with my over towering brother.

Michael is also quite fair. He reminds me of the balmy summer, with its vibrant colors and long outstretched, lazy days. His freckled face and auburn hair are like the wheat-fields near my home, the texture of which is comforting despite its roughness. He is constant. A northern star in temperament. Even if I grow frustrated with him, he remains calm. Sherlock would no doubt term it "humouring". And he would not tolerate it as I do. Sherlock is keen to argue, and to be patronized so, even in an effort to keep the peace, would not be allowed without a verbal dressing down.

In that way, Sherlock always reminded me of the winter, just as it was fading into the first few days of spring. He is temperamental and inconsistent. He can be warm if he wishes to. But even his warmth is offset by a constant chill. He suffers no one, except the few he loves, to whom he is doggedly devoted. But he will not humour me. The full storm of his thoughts and feelings are not held back but rushes through the brightening January days with all the force of a dimming but hardly dead winter.

His hair is the black, shimmering night-sky; his skin the pale, soft blanket of snow. His eyes are the damp patches of grass that still peek out of the lawn and the moors. He is cold.

I always preferred the cold, though.

His sheets had been cool; almost bitingly so as I slipped into them. It refreshed me to feel the icy material against my legs and arms as I slinked into his bed with him. The first time I'd felt any stirrings inside my feminine soul, it was upon awakening to see Sherlock's sleepy eyes staring at me, his face half smothered by his comfortable pillow. His eyes had been dark, unfocused and abyssal. I knew then that if that was how he looked upon waking in the morning, I was doomed to to hold onto him, even to my own detriment . . . perhaps even for the rest of my life.

"Are you quite certain that there is no other reason for his sudden interest in me? Why does he really wish to meet me?" Michael's breath faintly stirs my hair.

"He just wants to meet you. You are to wed his sister." I reply, trying vainly to keep the exasperation out of my voice.

It doesn't matter in any case, seeing as Michael is adept at ignoring my tones and moods."You're not really his sister."

The very truth of that statement cuts me, but for many reasons, none of which I can verbalize to the man in front of me.

"Yes well…"

We fall into a silent spell. A light snow is falling, brushing against the awnings of the storefronts.

"If your brother wishes to discover the truth of who is following you," Michael starts suddenly, "he could simply follow you and see what if there is any truth to your story."

"I did not think the validity of my story was in question." I whisper frostily.

He puts an arm about my shoulder, "You knew very well what I mean, darling. I just think that this petty problem could be easily solved. But perhaps your brother simply prefers to go about things the hard way."

I am tempted to be derisive and tell him that he should take up detective work but restrain myself. It will not be ladylike. I stare instead at the dull cream-colored siding of the building next to me.

"He has followed me, actually, but to no avail. I'm beginning to think I should just push this from my mind and move on." I volunteer instead.

He stops and takes my shoulders, forcing me to face him. "I have been hoping you would come to this conclusion for some time. I think you're worrying yourself for no reason. Besides, I am perfectly capable of protecting you."

I pat his hand, removing it from my shoulder, not wishing to upset his fragile masculinity. "I do not think he will give it up now, though. He is surprisingly stubborn when something piques his interest."

Michael kisses me on my temple, "I'm sure he'll come around soon and see things from our point of view."


	13. Démasqué

From the memoirs of John H. Watson. 

Holmes left a few hours after Lillian departed for her rendezvous, a predatory gleam in his eye that told me that he was up to something. As much as I tried to prod him, he bounded down the stairs without explanation, the door slamming resolutely behind him. I stared out the window at his retreating form; merely a dark shape against the dim moonlight. The winter night was liquid and full of hovering rain. The snow was melting on the ground and for the first time in a few months, the stars were ablaze and jewel-like, though their bright shine did not quite touch the desolate and barren cobblestone of Baker Street as my friend treaded it with a determined step.

I was still unsettled by the conversation I'd had with Holmes right before his departure.

_"Perhaps, Holmes, we are overlooking a possibility, merely because it would be distasteful to us."_

_ He had regarded me curiously, without any trace of condescension. "And what would that be, Watson?"_

_ "That maybe . . . " I hesitated, only barely, but I'm sure the moment of vacillation did not go unnoticed by his sharp eyes. "That perhaps Lillian' s story itself has not . . . been composed entirely of the truth." It was as polite as I could render it. I had not really meant to accuse the lovely lady of dishonesty, merely that she may have, inadvertently, or advertently, kept some facts to herself. "Maybe something relating to her father," I bore on bravely, trying to ignore the strangely guarded look beginning to twist in Holmes's intense eyes, "it could be that she is unwilling to speak on such a sore subject, even though she may know its important. Women-"_

_ "I am not fond of women . . ." He stated almost absurdly. There was no scorn in his voice, no trace of the disdain that would have been expected to accompany such a statement. He looked bewildered by his own words, actually. Or perhaps at his own feelings. "But," he continued, his incongruously grey eyes trailing past my head in what can only be termed a diffident manner, "Lillian is . . . incapable of subterfuge. I assure you."_

_ With Holmes, one never knew if that statement was a compliment or an slight. _

_ "Perhaps not subterfuge, but-"_

_ "No." He snapped. The already frigid temperature in the space between us seemed to drop to nearly arctic levels. "We will take her on her word."_

_ I could not muster up a response, so unused to seeing that familiarly hostile look directed at myself when I was so accustomed to seeing it aimed at the shifty and duplicitous figures that we inevitable encountered in the course of our work. _

_ He retreated to his room for a long while before reemerging bundled in his winter clothes. He left then without a parting word. _

The whole encounter left a very bitter taste in my mouth. I hadn't meant to insult him or his family. I wondered if he would still be upset with me upon his return. With Holmes,one never knew how his moods would swing. He had an alarmingly mercurial temperament. It was the artist in him, I suppose. 

I'd finally settled down to open up an old medical journal when, to my great surprise, the elder Holmes paid our flat a visit for the second time in the long five years I had resided with his brother. His visit was short and abrupt. Not that I would expect any more from the iceberg that was currently standing in the middle of my flat and wearing an ill-fitting suit.

I could tell he was irritated being roused from his club to call upon Holmes and demanded to know what his younger brother was involved in that would keep him from a case that was "of such national and criminal importance." I obliquely remembered Holmes mentioning something about a case that his brother brought to his attention yesterday, but was otherwise unaware of its importance. I did not know how to adequately answer and advised him to call back later to talk to his brother himself.

He barked at me that he indeed would not and that the "Great and Mighty Detective" was obliged to come to his club tomorrow and talk. I did not miss the implication that I would also be held accountable if Holmes missed the appointment.

"I'm sorry, but your brother is currently following up on a problem involving your sister. Did you not know?" I inquired.

He smirked as if he were privy to some joke that I was ignorant of. "Yes, I am aware of where his attentions are currently diverted to. I have been for quite some time, in fact." He lingered over the last words, somehow infusing them with more sarcasm than even the sardonic detective was capable of. In a strange wave of half-lit understanding, I knew he was trying to tell me something. I had no clue what is was though, or how I was expected to respond.

I stared at him dumbly. He grew tired of my stupidity and cast an appraising glance about our messy rooms. He stared fixedly at a pair of Lillian's gloves that lay resting on the stool of Holmes chemical desk. Or at least I believed he was, it was hard to tell.

He finally gave me his attention once more. After sizing me up with a strangely appraising look, he reordered me to relay his message to Holmes. I fought the urge to ask for a tip for my services as pageboy and simply nodded stiffly, wondering why I was so certain that I, in some way, had come up deficient in the elder Holmes's eyes.

He lumbered back down the stairs with great effort and closed the door roughly.

I stood for awhile, scowling at the still door. I wondered how much trouble I'd find myself in if I carelessly "forgot" to pass on his urgent dispatch. I cursed myself for thinking in such childish terms; as if either Holmes could send me to bed without my supper if I displeased them.

The medical journal in my hand suddenly seemed dry and disheartening. The chill that that aloof government official had left in wake apparently had no intention of abating. I replaced the book on the shelf and perused the selection for something to warm the frosty air and the frosty feeling that had settled in my chest due to the two successive and unpleasant confrontations that I'd been tangled in a period of mere hours. I had just settled down into my chair and resolved to lose myself in a yellow-backed novel and forget the day's events when the bell rung once more. Mrs. Hudson's tread could be heard at the bottom of the stairs and then there was silence. A few moments passed and I assumed the visitor had, thankfully, left.

I let out a sigh of relief that was perhaps more dramatic than the situation warranted. I was about to turn my attention back to the pages in front of me when something caught my ear. A faint rustling rose from behind the door, from near the bottom of the stairs. I closed my book softly and listened intently, sure that I could now discern footsteps on the stairs and feeling acutely disinclined to entertain another visitor. A million excuses and apologies raced through my mind as I was already in the process of readying a dismissive response to whatever the visitor had to say, whether it be a guest or even our landlady.

But, using the small amount of observational skill I'd culled from Holmes in my close association with him, I'd deduced that none of the footsteps were Mrs. Hudson's. In fact I could hear that they were all male from the steady thuds that lacked the traditional click of pointed heels that were customary on a woman's shoe. There were at least four distinct footfalls that I could distinguish making their way up to our sitting room. I had just risen, thinking that perhaps it was Holmes returning with more in tow, when the door swung open unceremoniously.

It was decidedly _not _Holmes.

Five men entered my sitting room, ignoring my cry of protest. They were all tanned, to the point of being swarthy, but nicely dressed. I felt immediately unsure of myself in their presence. I was not small man, nor was I feeble, but to be outnumbered so but such an ominous lot caused my fingers to clinch tightly about the spine of my book. They circled me as I demanded to know who they were and what they were doing in my home. 

"Where is Mr. Holmes?" The shortest one to my right asked without dithering.

"He is out at the moment." I snapped; the perfect picture of an affronted gentleman. "So I would encourage that you come back at a more convenient time and perhaps he will condescend to speak with you if he is not to busy." I was being overconfident to hide my nervousness. These men were resolute, and their eyes held a hard glint of determination.

I think it was safe to assume that they were not here for Holmes's services.

The cold steel of the gun that was suddenly clapped to the back of my skull reaffirmed my suspicion. I went still, assuming what I hoped was a placating stance, and raised my hands in surrender. "No need to get excited." I tempered my tone, forcing a conciliatory attitude.

"Would it be imprudent of us to ask when will he return?" This came from the man I assumed was the ringleader.

I took a breath as the butt of the pistol pushed into my head. "I am not sure." I answered hastily. "Though I assure you that he is a reasonable man, and if you wish to speak with him, these actions are not necessary." Despite Holmes claim that I was unable to disassemble, I actually lied convincingly well.

"We don't wish to speak with him…we wish to speak to him."

I nodded calmly, "Alright. I'm sure he'd be willing to hear you out. I repeat, there is no need for this show of force." I dared to lower my hands a bit, hoping my non-threating air of relaxation would temper their aggression. "Where is Mrs. Hudson?" I asked, suddenly aware that she must have opened the door for them. The forbidding hush that I could hear on the other side of the sitting-room door was worrying.

"You mean the lovely Scotswoman that who greeted us so hospitably? She's quite alright," the leader of the pack responded smugly, "I assure you. She's presently sleeping soundly on your kitchen floor. Her sleep may not be very restful, I am afraid, and she is sure to have a headache when she awakes." He weighed his gun in hand pointedly.

Though the violence against my estimable landlady angered me, I felt relieved that she was at least alive.

The door opened and closed in the foyer, closing gently. I recognized Holmes' tread immediately. His stride was idle and sluggish. I knew it meant he was deep in thought. It was going to be much easier to catch him unawares in this state. Cloth was shoved into my mouth and around my wrists hastily. The men spread out, leaving me in view as the formed a wide circle.

He entered with his head down, pulling off his overcoat as was usual for him. He looked up just as the door was slammed shut behind him, a pistol carrying ruffian sliding to block the way out. Shock flittered across his face for the barest of a second but disappeared.

He stood rigid for a moment, his coat hanging off his shoulders and his face passive, though I could tell that he was startled and acutely annoyed at his own obliviousness.

He overcoat was taken from him in an almost laughably cordial manner. The pistol was still clapped to my head, to which Holmes nodded in acknowledgement and acquiescence. He met my gaze for a heated second. I read determination in his eyes, but I could see no way of detangling ourselves from this situation without a few scrapes.

"I would welcome you gentlemen into my humble abode, but I see you've already made yourself at home." The detective's voice was languid, drawing out each word in false indifference.

"We were obliged, Mr. Holmes. We had to be assured of your audience to what we have to say."

The four men, who were not pointing pistols at me, drew a tighter circle around my roommate, who slid his hands into his pockets without even a glimmer of worry on his face. I hoped I was the only one who took notice of the tightening of his spine.

He bowed his head slightly for the men to speak.

"We have heard of you and your many and innumerable talents, and we admire your tenacity and intelligence." Holmes' jaw tightened, not at all fooled by the compliments. "So we speak to you as intelligent men also, in an effort to make you see that you will benefit by minding your own business in certain matters that have presented themselves at your doorstep."

"I will benefit? I think you mean _you _will benefit." Holmes snapped.

The men snickered. The leader stepped into my companion's face. Holmes was a great deal taller than most of the men in the room, and they would not have been a match for him if it weren't for their weapons. "Our benefit is your benefit, Mr. Holmes, and the benefit of those close to you." 

He wasn't speaking of me and Holmes' face grew dark at the indirect reference to his sister, though no surprise showed. "I'll ponder your advice." He replied acidly. He stepped back and cocked his head, "and I bid you good-day. I am a busy man, you must appreciate."

"You won't be for a few days. In fact, I daresay you look a little under the weather. I think a few days indoors might be good for your constitution, Mr. Holmes." Holmes stepped back at his words, realizing what was to come before I understood the underlying threat. I saw only a glimmer of the wicked smile that marred the already unpleasant visage of our visitor before Holmes was greeted with a unexpected and brutally hard right hook across his jaw. Blood burst from his mouth and onto his shirt, splattering across the metal hooks that adorned the knuckles of his assailant.

I started to rise, outraged by the blatant sucker punch; my exclamation of surprise muffled by my gag. The gun pressed harder into my skin as I was pushed back down. My companion cupped his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut in pain. I wondered how wise this course of action was on the part of our amiable guests, seeing as Holmes was quite skilled in the art of boxing. I'd been privy to a few matches. The sheer strength and aggression of the sport was shocking when I'd first seen what an authentic underground and impromptu contest was truly like. Bare-knuckled boxing was carnal, to say the least, and while Holmes was a perfect gentleman, he seemed strangely at home in that arena. I had no doubt that these men would be in for it had they decided on a even match.

Holmes grabbed the man's wrist as the fist was raised once more to descend on him and I knew that his grip was not a feeble one. "You really must cease that. I do say, my looks will suffer."

His attacker gasped in pain but he was soon released from the painful grasp when another pistol was cocked and trained onto my head.

"I thought you were a reasonable man, Mr. Holmes." The man seethed, the quaver in his voice betraying his lingering physical pain. "But now I, unfortunately, can see you may need more persuading."

Holmes didn't fight back, his concern for me preventing him. I tried to help as they surged upon him but ended up face down with a knee in my back, feeling useless. I let my eyes close, not wanting to see what was taking place while knowing there was nothing I could do to prevent it. The sounds were enough to stoke my anger and concern. The table cracked loudly; jars and plates shattered as they fell to the ground. The scuffling of boots on the ground was rough and frantic. Even with four men on him, I knew Holmes was proving a hard man to bring down. I could hear punches striking home, in too quick a succession to be from only one man at a time. A chair scraped the floor. It toppled over next to my face.

There was a loudly barked curse and I could hear the air rush out of someone's lungs. There was sickening thud and then silence. The knee withdrew from my back, leaving a faint impression of weight there. Breath blew across my cheek as someone leaned over me.

"You be a good friend and remind the detective of our conversation when he awakes from his little nap, just in case he forgets." I nodded quickly, feeling impotent and pathetic, merely hoping they would leave now.

My wish was granted as they shuffled out purposefully, the arrogance in their manner beyond maddening. I waited until the door closed. I raised myself to my knees and took in my surroundings as I struggled with the cloth around my wrists.

The place was in shambles. The furniture had been pushed around. The table where I had eaten breakfast only this morning was broken and leaning to one side. The pushed aside dishes and rolling cups let me know that someone had been deposited quite roughly onto it.

Holmes was unconscious by the basket chair near his chemical set. He was flat on his stomach and his head turned to the side. There was blood all over his face and his clothes askew. There was a fire-poker lying next to him. I struggled to my feet and finally succeeded in my effort to unwrap my hands. He'd obviously been subject to a vicious blow by the offending medal rod.

I wrenched off my gag as I felt for his pulse and checked his head to see where the blood was originating. It was coming from his nose and mouth mostly, but there was a considerable gash on the back of his head. I shifted through his thick and blood matted hair and felt the wound, which was deep but not fatally so. I pressed my handkerchief to his head and hurried down the stairs to check on Mrs. Hudson and fetch an ambulance.


	14. Pieces of a Journal Pt 3

Pieces from a journal.

I am utterly distraught. It is a horrifying feeling. I keep my composure the best I can, clutching my trembling fingers in my lap to conceal my emotions. I shift in the hard chair of the waiting room as the comforting doctor pats my arm. He is beyond worried; the signs are easy enough to see. He persists in reassuring me that all is well, despite the fact that I haven't asked. I grip his hand tightly and nod in response to his words. He murmurs it again under his breath, absently, and I see his is trying to calm his own fears through my agreement. I nod again, my eyes trailing over the off-colored white of the stuccoed walls.

It reminded me too much of waiting outside my mother's sick room. The setting was quite different, to be sure. Instead of austere seats and air that smelled of chemicals and antiseptic, I'd felt the soft fabric of Oriental rugs and bear-skin beneath my feet, my fingers trailing through the moss-edge fringe of the valances; pacing the darkened hall as the doctor and servants traipsed back and forth, their unhurried and supine movements even more evidence that it would be soon…but the feeling was the same, whether in a gloomy house or an astringent hospital room. The despair, the helplessness - the smell of death.

Mrs. Hudson had awoken on the ambulance ride to the hospital, at once falling into near hysterics at the sight of her tenant and his injuries. She was quickly examined and given something so that she could sleep through the headache that would result from being struck with the butt of a pistol. The narcotics were also quite effective in calming her disposition. Her niece had taken her back to Baker Street to rest.

Now we simply waited on news of Sherlock. I hadn't yet seen him or the damage that I heard was wreaked on his person. Dr. Watson had been good enough to leave a brief (and therefore utterly frustrating) note informing me that they were at St. Bart's. The only information I had was the remnants and ruins of the sitting-room, which had spoken of a terrible struggle. Needless to say, this scene did nothing to alleviate my worry.

I had demanded to know what exactly had happened when I arrived to find Dr. Watson staring at the ceiling, his blond hair chaotic. What I had heard made me sick to my stomach. Sherlock had always seemed invulnerable to me. Perhaps it was because he was so much bigger than I was; one of his hands could wrap around my neck without effort. In my youth, due to my unpleasant history with the male gender, I had been struck with a sort of unhealthy terror for strange men I did not know or who happened to be larger than me. This fear, however, was never felt around Sherlock, or his father, for that matter. My brother's towering height and stature had always been comforting, in fact, like a large shield and bulwark. I could now see that years of following him around for protection had fooled me into thinking nothing could hurt him. Now, not only had I learned that he was not exactly undefeatable, but I knew without a vestige of doubt that I was solely to blame for this ugly turn of events.

I was not surprised to hear that it took four men to subdue him.

"He'll be quite alright, Miss Holmes." Dr. Watson breaks into my thoughts once again, squeezing my fingers. His hand is cold to the touch, as if the blood has ceased to flow to the tips of his fingers. I rub his hand absently, as I would one of my young music students.

"Yes, yes." I respond softly, "I'm sure he'll come out as right as rain." I was supremely touched by his concern for Sherlock. My brother was not a sociable person, nor was he outgoing, but he seemed to draw the right people to him, even if they were few. I had no doubt that, had the situations been reversed, the cool detective would have been equally concerned for the doctor.

I shock him by gripping his arm and touching my forehead briefly to his shoulder. "Do not worry, John, I'm sure my brother has been in worst scrapes and faired fine in the end."

His attention is drawn away from my familiar behavior by the doctor descending down the hallway towards us. Watson rises hastily, which lets me know that this was the doctor who had apparently tended to Sherlock's wounds. I nod to him briefly, too anxious to hear what he has to say to be concerned with formality. Being the proper gentleman he is expected to be, however, he still takes the time to bow to me, reaching up on instinct to lift his hat in my direction, though he has none upon his head. I curtsy quickly, hoping he does not see the irritation I feel. Dr. Watson stumbles through a customary, albeit brief, introduction, failing to hide his own annoyance.

"How is Mr. Holmes?" The good doctor inquires.

"Well, Mr. Holmes received quite a blow to his head from, I can only guess, a fire poker." Dr. Watson nods in affirmation and gestures for the physician to continue.

"Besides that injury, there were some bruises and cuts to his face, hands, and torso, but he will be alright after some rest. Perhaps you would like to see him?"

"Is he awake now?" Watson asks in surprise. "Have you not sedated him?"

"He was unconscious as we worked on him, so we felt no need to administer anesthesia." The doctor frowns disapprovingly, "However, he woke up as we were stitching his head. Even tried to get up and leave. But he claimed to be in no pain, and we had no reason or evidence to disbelieve him. You may see him . . . if he has not dressed and escaped already."

I let out a relieved sigh and grasp Doctor Watson's hand, overcome with joy. Sherlock behaving troublesomely was a relief. Dr. Watson smiles also, casting me a knowing glance, and asks to be led to his room.

We follow him down the hall, passing by the doors of the infirmary. Through the small square windows, I can see rows of beds lined against the wall. Nearly all of them are occupied with the sick and injured. The dankness of the hospital makes my skin itch with goose-bumps.

The room was better lit than the others and Sherlock was the only occupant. Apparently being a world-renowned detective had its advantages. He has his back to us when we enter and just before he slips on his collar, I can see the bandages wrapped around his torso. I cough delicately, embarrassed. He does not react to our sudden presence.

"What are you doing?" Dr. Watson exclaims when he sees his roommate getting dressed. He steps out from behind me, striding forward with a physician's urgency.

Sherlock flinches at the volume of his words, though the doctor hasn't raised his voice much. He slides off the bed and turns to us as he buttons up his shirt. "I am not a conventional man," he begins, a note of pain mixing with his usual sardonic tone, "but I do tend to agree with modern society that you should be fully dressed before going outside into public company." His dark voice is hoarse. His eyes meet mine for a moment before his gaze shifts away to the remnants of his vestments.

His well-formed and elegant face is bruised about his eye and jaw, his lip stitched and the side of his nose and mouth swollen and red. I stare at him until he turns away from me, his cheeks reddening to match his welts.

"But Holmes, do you not think it best to stay here for a few days to heal?" Dr. Watson demands.

Holmes shrugs - a habit he has not grown out of . . . unfortunately. "The doctors think so," he waves away, "but I've decided to take my leave of this dreadful place."

Watson begins inspecting the sutured wound on the back of his head. "You are the most confounding and infuriating man at times, Holmes. Why would you decide to leave against doctor's advice?"

Sherlock pushes his hand away in, what is for him, an unusual fit of temper. "Because the doctors have done all they can to fix the damage…and because I have better things to do then sit around the hospital eating the horrid stuff the nurses fondly call 'food'."

"Since when do you care about the quality of your nourishment?" The doctor snorts derisively.

"Since when-" Sherlock begins to respond with what, I'm sure, would be an equally flippant comment, but I cut him short with a pointed look.

"May I speak to you alone?" I ask boldly. Watson glances between us a few times before exiting gracefully. Now standing alone with Sherlock, the once capacious room seems cramped and uncomfortable.

My brother and I stare at each other for a while as he lifts his silk puff tie to wrap around his neck. He is only able to life his arms midway before wincing and gingerly touching his ribs. I take the strip of Prussian blue cloth from his disobliging hands and fix it as he gazes fixedly over my petite head. The whiskers of his soft, fine beard brush against my knuckles.

I take a deep breath as I cross the material over clumsily. "I think, perhaps, we should call this investigation off." I can literally feel his body tense, though he is not pressed against me. He steps a bit closer, almost unconsciously trying to overwhelm me. His thighs brush against my stiff dress, faintly, but I can still feel the sensation through the layers of skirts and petticoats.

"What?" He fairly growls the question at me, which sends an unexpected shiver through my back. I tug at the tip of my gloved fingers, pulling at the soft fabric.

"It really does not seem worth it…no one has bothered me really…"

"Well, I that is true. I think I'll forget about the whole thing."

I cocked an eyebrow, "You're being awfully complacent."

"I was being ironic."

"Oh really? I hadn't noticed."

He hides a smile at my sarcasm. "They may not have laid hands upon you as of yet, but they've threatened it." I reach for his vest, leaning near him. I can smell the remnants of his cologne and the piquant small of iodine and alcohol. His arm snakes around my waist and draws me to him, as tight as his bruised ribs will allow. "They've threatened you…"

My hands skitter into the depths of his thick, dark hair but he hisses loudly and draws away from me when my fingers accidentally skim across his fresh stitches. He runs his own hand over them gently and flinches.

He takes his vest and puts it on, admirably returning to his usual impervious self with a rapidity that was no longer surprising. "And let's not forget that they have bothered me." He touched his cheek softly, "I don't much care for having my teeth knocked in. They should not have played with me. I can hardly allow for my reputation to being torn to shreds by those vultures. Hopefully this incident will stay out of the papers, or else I'll see every Tom and Dick of the criminal world thinking they can knock on my door and put me in the hospital. When I lay hands on who's responsible for this, they will have a great deal to answer for."

His voice was icy cold, and though the unspoken threat was not directed at me, I still fidgeted nervously with the lace of my bodice.

He was different then the boy I had grown up with. He was still brilliant, but the child I'd known had been energetic, frighteningly so, and easily excitable. It had taken my mother a few months to grow use to his chattering, sometimes even to his self and his constant need for attention and, I daresay, affection. He was sometimes a blur in the house, rushing down the stairs and then back up, over one chair and onto another, out of the house then into the house, only to skid to a breathless stop before any adult that might be passing by and spout of some random and sometimes disturbing fact that he had learned somewhere. Once he had told my mother that fifty years ago in the house down the street, the father had murdered his three children because they wouldn't go to bed when he told them to. Then he'd run off before she could think of an adequate response to such a horror.

And the boy I'd known had been almost compassionate to a fault. No stray or hurt animals were left unattended. The death toll in that house was quite high due to the numerous sick animals Sherlock brought home, most of which passed away despite our best efforts to nurse them to health. He'd care for them and tend to them for as long as they were alive, though he knew they were not long for the world. Then he'd bury them, never shedding a tear.

I saw him fight off three impertinent boys bothering one of the farmer's daughters once while we walked to the waterfalls. My mother had been subject to the most frightful interrogations about her feelings whenever he suspected she was upset. He had always wanted to do something, almost itching with the need to fix whatever was wrong. In his own childlike bluntness, he'd search you out in honest and sincere sympathy. I grew used to it, though he softened his manner as he got older until he didn't ask at all. His eyes replaced his words. He had no need to ask or interrogate. When he'd whetted his talents to an art, he could merely look at you and see all your inner thoughts. There were times I could literally feel those sharp eyes on me from across a room, running over my face and my posture. It was strange how his gaze could be as affecting as his touch as it loitered over my back and neck.

"I feel warm." He states suddenly as he shakes out his jacket, bringing me back to the present. It still has blood on it, as does his shirt. The dark brown stain spreads down his arm, nearly to the cuff. The material looks stiffer there, as if it would disintegrate and scatter like ashes if I touched it.

"It's a trifle warm in here." I allow. I'm not entirely sure if it is, or if the flush I felt was due to the cramped quarters and layers of skirts.

He pulls off one of my gloves and, without warning, presses my hand to his face, "Do I feel warm to you?"

I blush at his forward action, "Just a tad."

My fingers seem to assert their own will, trailing airily over his bruises and stitches.

"By the look on your face, buggerlugs, my face must be a decided mess." He is smiling faintly. The handsomeness of the umarred side of his face is only accentuated by the damage of the other side. I wonder suddenly if I am the only one to see how beautiful he is.

"It is. I can barely stand to look at you." I joke feebly. I whisper my thumb over his mouth and his lips part faintly. I can feel his warm breath against the rough pads of my pianist fingers. I pull away and put my glove back on swiftly.

Dr. Watson knocks on the door and enters. His eyes dance between the two of us, trying to gauge the mood of the room. I fight down a blush, knowing it will make him suspicious - that is, if the good doctor is capable of suspicion.

"I have a hansom waiting." He succinctly announces. He twirls his bowler in his hands, analyzing his friend with a critical eye. I know the physician in him is aching to do his own examination but Sherlock will never allow it. I was surprised to see he had even allowed the nurses to bandage him. Though his unconscious state was probably the reason for his relative acquiescence.

"Did you notice something interesting about our intruders, Watson?" Sherlock asks as we are making a slow descent down the hospital stairs to the waiting hansom cab. He's favoring his right side and walking unsteadily, though he'd quite firmly refused Dr. Watson's offer of help.

"Besides the fact that they were attempting to beat you within an inch of your life?" The doctor answers beneath his breath. I am beginning to think that my brother's long-suffering flatmate was quite capable of impatience and annoyance.

The detective's jaw tightens. He is not fond of his frailties being openly discussed, especially his physical ones. "I would hardly describe it as that." He defends, almost sulkily.

Watson is wise enough to abandon this channel of conversation. "What else was I to notice?"

"Well, despite the unpleasantness of our encounter with those counterfeit gentlemen, in one way we have benefited from the vicissitudes of providence. As I was being so courteously handled, I was able to observe that they all had unusual tattoos on the collarbones."

"Did they?"

"_Morte_. The Italian word for 'death'."

"Sounds morbid." I pipe up as we are hustling our way into the hansom cab. Sherlock refuses our help and grunts his way into his seat.

"Sounds like a clue." Dr. Watson offers and Holmes purses his lips, turning to order the driver to stop by the telegraph office.

When he turns back around, there is a keen gleam in his eye. "Indeed it does."


	15. Excerpt from a Diary Pt 5

_Except from a diary. _

_It continued on for years, until her chest was no longer so flat and I started to appreciate that it was wrong of her to be there in the solitude of my bedchamber in nothing but her nightshift. But it did not matter to me; it was hard to imagine sleeping without her next to me now that it had become customary. In fact, it was near impossible to do so. _

_We were nearing fifteen but still acting as if as if we were children; paying no heed to that fact that we were growing too mature to nestle up next to each other in nothing but our night clothes. In a little over a year, she'd be of age and debuting. This was disagreeable to the both of us, though I remained silent on the matter. She was not, however, and had confided in me that she did not wish to come out so soon. When asked if I thought it wise for her to speak to my father on the matter, I urged her to for her own peace of mind, but did not admit that it was only because I did not much care for the thought of her prancing about and being sized up by older gentlemen looking for a young wife. _

_It was actually on the eve of my fifteenth birthday that she found comfort in my bed for the last time for many years to come. She crawled onto the sheet as I watched her, curled up on my side. Gliding her hands into mine, she mimicked my pose; her face a mere millimeters away from my own. She smiled and I saw for the first time that her eyes were bright, happy. Her skin and hair had darkened over the years; developing a honey tone that was beyond flattering on her. _

_ "Happy birthday Sherlock." _

_ "It's not my birthday yet, buggerlugs," I teased her affectionately, "two more hours to go." _

_ She lifted her head up to gaze out the window, watching the clouds move languidly in front of the moon. "Close enough, I would think." She leaned forward to kiss me on the nose, her heart-shaped lips warm against my skin. _

_ It was at that moment that Mycroft entered the room. _

_We had moved quietly around under his nose for five years, but somehow he no knew. I could see it in his expression; the lack of shock he displayed at the scene before him gave that away. He took her by the arm without a word and extracted her from the room, leaving her to make her way back to her bed on her own. _

_Closing the door behind her, he faced me as we now were left alone in the room. I was sitting-up on the bed, panicked in a way I was not accustomed to. _

_"What are you doing, Sherlock?" He sounded deceptively calm, as if he merely waited for a sufficiently reasonable answer from me that would explain the whole situation to be entirely not what it seemed. _

_But the situation was as it seemed. _

_I opened my mouth but no sound came out, leaving me gaping like some codfish struck dumb. _

_He tensed suddenly in the face of my stupid silence and moved to stand next to my bed, his impressive bulk overpowering me. There was a mixed look of fear and annoyance in his eyes. I had known my brother for a long time, and I had never seen him so moved. _

_ "You are not a five year old Sherlock. You should know better than to have young ladies in your quarters at night." _

_ "She's my sister." It was a pitiable defense. _

_ Mycroft shook his head at me, grabbing my arm suddenly with a violent intensity that I'd never thought him capable of. "I'd be well within my right to speak to father about this." _

_ "No!" I snapped fiercely, fear rising in me. Not because I was scared of chastisement but I could not bear that look of dissatisfaction that crossed over my father's face when we fell short of his standards. _

_ Mycroft left the room then, without another word, leaving the threat lingering in the air and a warning glare imprinted upon my mind. I didn't sleep anymore that night. _

_He didn't expose me though. My father's behavior changed not a bit towards me, and I knew Mycroft was hoarding the secret to himself, perhaps practically realizing that it could be used a later time if he ever be in need of a favor. My brother was also smart enough to know that the very real peril he had put out there was enough to straighten me up. And it did, I turned her away from my room after that. _

_She didn't resent me for it though, I think somewhere inside herself she was relieved. The decision that I believe she had been wrestling with had now been made for her and she no longer had to consider it. _

_We sought out other ways of being together though and I always wondered if Mycroft's intervention had made matters worse in the long run. _


	16. Yorkshire

**From the memoirs of John H. Watson**

The next morning, Holmes asked me if I would like to take a trip to the country with him for the day. It was an odd request but I accepted, knowing that it must have been important for him to suggest in the middle of a case.

It wasn't until we were on the train and settled into our first class coach that I learned that we were heading to North Riding to see his father, who still resided at the manor house where Holmes had been born and raised. I had visited that region often in childhood and had to confess a certain fondness for the Pennine Hill country. Its coastal villages were breathtaking and I remember sitting at The Dock End in Whitby and watching the boats come in while I indulged on hard candy. I had always desired to see the Weston Park in Sheffield that opened nearly a decade ago but somehow I doubted that this would be on Holmes' schedule.

It was a two-hour train ride and the first half was filled with unsettling silence as Holmes merely stared out the train window into the vague scenery.

I finally decided to break the stillness when I remembered that Holmes was missing that imperative meeting that Mycroft had demanded he attend. Holmes merely shrugged, obviously not as concerned with his brother's anger as I was.

"I'll talk to him later." He narrowed his eyes at me thoughtfully when I looked distressed. "No doubt he tried to cower you into persuading me. I can see he will not leave me alone until I concede, so it probably best to avoid him."

"Surely he must understand that you are presently engaged."

"Mycroft has always been more concerned with matters of politics and finance than with those 'petty problems' that I deign to consider." There was a faint hint of amusement in his words.

"Whatever could be so important?"

"Have you heard of the Netherland-Sumratra Company and it's…difficulties?"

"It's been all over the papers. Extortion and swindle….why is that so important to Mycroft?"

"Because it's an international affair now. My brother has visions of the English, in the form of myself, coming to the rescue." He sighed loudly, "Once I clear this up, I'll look into it. A trip might do me good."

He fell back into silence, plucking at his shirtsleeve nervously.

"Lillian had some peculiar questions for me this morning." I started to fill the void of sound that was between us.

"Oh?" He replied languidly.

"She wanted to know why we did not use your picture for 'A Study in Scarlet' in the Strand."

"Is that so?"

"I told her you would not have been too pleased with your likeness out there for everyone to see. She seemed outraged for you that we used 'a man of such unbecoming features' to represent you. She also seemed to find it unsettling to see you pictured as such an older man."

"Picture me as a green skinned gorilla for all I care, as long as you do not lead any curious idlers to my flat."

I laughed, "Yes, well, I told her to be careful what she said, or else poor Barret who posed for those drawings might get his feelings hurt to hear he is so unpleasant to look at. She seemed a bit repentant after that."

"Poor Barret has a difficult enough lot in life, having to pose for magazine drawings to earn a few shillings that I would think you would not even consider relaying such things to him."

"Of course not." I reassured, thinking of strange John Barret who worked in the lady's shoe store near the West End.

I pushed the tall man with the severe, hawk like visage from my mind. I asked Holmes what he hoped to discover with his father.

"I only need to get something straight. I am not sure how the will is worked out with Lily's-" He caught himself, "Lillian's parents. Her father is dying - doesn't that seem telling?"

"You think she's the inheritor of something someone is after?"

He nodded. "I know it would be difficult for Mr. Douglas to build up his finances after incarceration, but there are other ways of coming into money."

"You think those men who . . . visited . . . our flat are involved with him?"

"They definitely seemed to be part of an organized group, at least. I sent a telegram to Mr. Crowe asked if he had any information on that tattoo. It may be a false lead, or it may be the first step to figuring this mess out. I expect a response in a few days."

"I'm surprised that you were willing to leave Lillian all alone, even for a day."

He shrugged out of his jacket and adjusted his collar. "They don't want to hurt her. Plus, her fiancée will keep an eye on her, I am sure." He exhaled hard and looked out the window once more.

"Are you nervous of seeing your father again, Holmes?"

His face darkened without reserve and, to my surprise, he answered softly, "I feel like Peter."

"I'm sorry?"

"Like Peter…right after he disowned his Lord for the third time."

"Why is that?" I found it hard to believe he had done anything so wretched to deserve such a comparison.

His grey eyes took a sudden interest in the ceiling of our box-car. "I left the manor when I was nineteen. I enrolled during the long-vacation to the University of Dublin." He looked at me for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to continue. "I wanted to study chemistry and…" He smiled, as if amused with himself, "ancient languages. Put together it didn't really make a cohesive mixture for any practical purpose but it was what I was interested in."

"I see nothing criminal with that."

"I didn't want to be a preacher."

"Ah." I responded; comprehension dawning on me.

"He thought I would take up a career in the pulpit."

I must have made an incredulous face, because my companion frowned at me, "I'm beginning to suspect that you do not think highly of my moral status, doctor."

"It isn't that." I defended, "It just doesn't seem like a career that you would be contented with."

His features softened. "Yes, I was also aware of that. My father was an understanding man and it wasn't my choice that hurt him. I didn't even tell him I was leaving until a week before my departure. He noticed that I was packing…they were both furious at me." He trailed off and shook his head.

"I can understand why that might cause a strain."

"I also haven't visited since I left."

"You've been busy," I reassured, "and if he wished, he could have visited you…"

"I never told him where I lived."

I fell silent for a bit. "How do you think he will respond to seeing you after so long?"

He flashed me a ghost of a smile, "How did the Christ respond when he looked down at Peter in the courtyard?"

ﭏ

North Riding was covered in snow. There was no ground left exposed. Our boots sunk into it as we exited the carriage. We crunched our way up what, I could only assume, was usually the walkway. It was a two-story house, not extremely imposing in and of itself, but the grounds were expansive. We had passed farm houses on our carriage ride, as well as some impressive moors and waterfalls. I tried to imagine Holmes as a young boy, wandering and traipsing across the unique landscape. Even playing…I couldn't.

"The stables are behind there, though I suspect they are empty now. We don't own all of that land," he pointed into the distance to some slanting hills, "but we had free roam of it and I used to take walks there with Lillian." He cleared his throat. "In the beginning of fall, you couldn't even see the tops because the mist was so thick. Since we're elevated, the house would become shrouded in it." He tucked his hat down farther, "I thought it was wonderful."

"It looks like a scene from Wuthering Heights." I commented. The Bronte sisters had supposedly been inspired by the brilliance of Yorkshire and I could easily see why. There was something undeniably romantic and haunting about the place and its purple moors, especially in the snow-blanketed winter, or in the fall when your feet sank into the dewdrops that scattered themselves on the grass in multitudes.

"I suppose. Though I suspect nothing as dramatic happened on these lands as on those pages."

I nodded absently and stared at the horizon. Verses sprung to my mind unbidden, encouraged by the landscape though I knew not who had written them or where I had heard them:

_Wander that way where the grass does grow_

_On a bonnie hill in twilight_

_And catch the whispering fog as it flows_

_Into the darkness of night_

Holmes stopped suddenly, startling me from my embarrassingly poetic thoughts, and dug his toe into snow. He shifted it around a bit and pushed some aside until he reached some muddied dirt. He smiled to himself, "My father always talked about laying cobblestone and putting out a fountain. He talked about it for twenty years. I see not much has changed."

Holmes demeanor grew more reserved as we reached the wide double doors. Lifting the heavy knocker and letting it fall once with a loud clank, he bit his lip and smiled wanly at my smile of encouragement.

"I really must thank you for accompanying me, doctor. I'm not quite sure you know how deeply I appreciate it, John."

The door swung opened before I could muster a response to such a rare sentiment from him and we were faced with an older woman, greying and obviously near-sighted. She gaped at my friend for a moment before exclaiming, "Master Sherlock! Goodness heavens!" She didn't wait for a response before shuffling us into the foyer and disappearing down the hallway excitedly.

"Good to see you too, Madeline." Holmes muttered ironically once she was out of sight.

"Looks like someone's happy to see you." The comment seemed to calm his nerves a bit. He took my jacket with his own and hung them up. He slipped his hands into his pockets and told me that all of the bedrooms were upstairs, along with his father's study. He began to point out some artwork on the walls - he seemed almost unnaturally chatty.

The inside of the house was large, with the usual staircase that widened at the base and twisted up elegantly to the second floor. It was bathed in the most soothing colors; mahogany wood, rose carpeting, and tasteful and delicate gold filigree that snaked around the walls with a graceful whirl that brought to mind a waltz. A phonograph could be heard in the distance, I assumed from the kitchen which is where the servant's quarters would be. The house was darkened, but I could see a light down the hallway, which I could only guess came from a backdoor that was open.

It was chilly and I rubbed my arms to warm them.

"Are you cold?"

"It's freezing in here."

"The house has always been a bit drafty. Dew used to creep into my room from beneath the window-sill during the night. I guess we all grew used to it."

"I don't see how you could…its intolerable."

Holmes laughed, "Yes, well, I guess it is a far cry from Afghanistan. But I daresay it's no different than your unhealthy tolerance for heat."

It was true. My time during the war had acclimated me to heat much better then to the cold. It annoyed Holmes beyond words to see me comfortably sitting in my armchair during the hottest day in August while he sweated and pulled on his collar. I was feeling the same severe annoyance now at his unaffected demeanor while I shivered and tried to ignore the cramping of my leg wound.

A tall man came almost jogging down the hallway. He hovered a few feet away from us, as if peering at two ghosts before smiling widely. Holmes tugged at his morning coat self-consciously.

"Sherlock?" His father was almost as tall as him but beyond that they shared no physical features. His face was rounder and his complexion fair. I was expecting the peering benevolence that was so common to clergymen, but was faced with a much more robust and vibrant man.

His dark eyes ran over his son's battered face but he didn't inquire. He suddenly began laughing heartily, ignoring Holmes' look of discomfort. "And here I thought I would be cooped up all day and maddeningly bored."

Holmes smirked, "You wouldn't be cooped up if you shoveled the drive."

His comment was met with a dismissive wave, "If I was capable of shoveling the drive, then surely I am capable of walking to the gate. Forgive me if I've decided to choose the path of least effort in my old age."

"Then you're not really cooped up at all, are you?"

His father shook his head disapprovingly but his eyes twinkled. I searched for some resemblance to my companion. The fingers were both long and they both had the same wide smile and straight teeth.

"I feel no inclination to leave this house much anymore. During my teaching, I had four hands at my disposal, all of which have taken up my slack in the pulpit. There is nothing so gratifying as seeing your student rise to independance."

"Four hands? Four literal hands? Or are you employing one of your many synedoches, father?"

"Did you come here merely to be contrary?"

Holmes smoothed his tie, relaxing a bit. "No, it's just an added perk." He gestured to me. "This is my good friend and flat-mate Dr. John Watson."

He shook my hand firmly. "I've heard your name a few times. It's nice to make your acquaintance. My name is William, you may call me that." He gazed at us both, a look of peace settling over his face that was peculiar to a parent's look of relief. I could tell he had been waiting for his son for quite some time. "Would you both care to have some tea and sit?"

We acquiesced and Madeline, who now had regained herself enough to greet Holmes warmly and affectionately, set about making some vanilla tea with lemon biscuits. We mounted the stairs to William's study. Passing by the bedrooms, Holmes paused before one and peered in. He made no comment though.

I got the distinct impression that his father's warm reception had unsettled him perhaps more so than a resentful one would have. Knowing Holmes, it probably made him feel worse about his inconsiderate actions of the past.

We entered the study. The gas was on and the room was much brighter than the others. I suspected this was where most of the occupant's time was spent. There was a well-used couch with a table between it and the chairs that faced it. The carpet, in the light, took on a lighter shade of rose that complimented nicely with the dark wood of his small desk and walls. Books were piled up everywhere, the Holy Book prominent and open. A small piano sat in the corner, oddly out of place.

William Holmes noticed me eyeing it. "My late wife was a superb pianist. I moved that in here so that she could play for me as I wrote my sermons. It aided my thought."

Holmes wandered to the organ and touched a few keys, the sound clanged through the room dissonantly.

"I've been meaning to have it retuned but I haven't found the time." The elder Holmes explained. My companion winked at me conspiratorially out of the corner of his eye. The detective then sat on the narrow bench, flipping back his coat tails gently. Resting his long fingers upon the keys for a moment, he slowly started with a lazy rendition of Beethoven's _Für Elise_. Even with the ill-tuned instrument, the song was beautiful beneath his fingers, as inexperienced as he claimed them to be. After a moment, he switched to a breathtakingly fast _L'amour Est Une Ouiseau Rebelle_. The song fairly spun, making me shift inexplicably in my seat. Suddenly his fingers slipped, clanging roughly on the keys, ending the sound with an undignified and disharmonic note.

He was plainly affected by the feel of his mother's piano beneath his fingertips. His father glanced at me knowingly before grasping his son's sleeve and directing his attention to the other side of the study. "Look what I had made. Remarkable, isn't it?"

A portrait hung over the mantle-piece of a dark-haired woman, sitting on a divan. Her gaze was soft but intelligent, with grey eyes that were all too familiar. It was strategically placed next to the light, which cast faint and flattering shadows onto her features. I knew without asking that it was Holmes' mother and she was absolutely lovely. The detective openly gaped before stuttering out an ungraceful, "I guess 'remarkable' would be adequate."

His father sensed his distress and gestured to the sofa. We accepted the proffered seats as he slid into a basket-chair on the other side of the polished table. Holmes angled himself away from the portrait.

"I would have announced my visit, but it was a last minute decision."

Madeline entered with a full tray of tea and biscuits, settling it down and touching Holmes' shoulder as she left.

"You know you don't need to announce your visits. I do admit to a certain amount of surprise, though." His father sipped his tea, holding his saucer casually by his chest as he leaned back and regarded his son. "What could possibly be so urgent as to drive you from your famous Baker Street flat?"

Holmes tasted his own tea and placed it down gingerly. "Lillian's at my home."

"Really?" The older man sounded shocked. "She always seemed hesitant to visit you, despite my urgings."

I bit into a buttery lemon biscuit as Holmes shifted uncomfortably at the remark. "It was a business call. She felt she was being followed."

"Someone was following Lillian?"

"They also paid me a visit to warn me to stop looking into it."

"I can see that." He openly scanned his son's bruises.

Holmes lowered his head and reached for a sweet before deciding against it. He settled back into the cushions and sighed. "She also received a letter from her father, warning her to be careful."

"Of what?"

Holmes held his hands out in helplessness.

"Are you two in danger?" His father's voice reminded me a bit of Holmes as well, though not as strident. He sounded like Holmes when Holmes was in one of his relaxed moods- naturally relaxed as opposed to the languid insolence of his drug haze.

"Most likely, which is why I need to get to the bottom of this." He crossed his ankle over his knee and smoothed his cuff over his leather boots. "When you married Cecily, did Douglas change his will?"

"Not to my knowledge. Cecily was his beneficiary in the event of his death. I don't think he bothered to change that even though they were divorced."

"And if Cecily was," Holmes faltered for a word, "not able to collect?"

"Lillian's the heir then. But I hardly see how it's important. Charles only held onto his money for a moment before wasting it. And now that he's in prison-"

"He was released five months ago." Holmes interrupted.

"Was he?" The preacher's voice was low, filled with resigned disgust. "Lillian didn't mention it when she was here last."

"Perhaps she didn't want to think of it." I volunteered, looking up from the annotations I was taking on my pocket pad. The senior Holmes noticed my notes but nodded at my words without addressing what I was doing.

"Do you plan to stay the night?" He asked his son instead. I didn't miss the hope in his voice.

Holmes uncrossed his legs and reached for his cup, "We can't, I'm afraid; our train departs a quarter after eight. I have already missed an important meeting with Mycroft, and I fear his head will combust if I neglect to see him as soon as possible." Seeing his father's look of disappointment he added, "But we can stay for dinner if it is almost prepared. Does Madeline still cook that wonderful cassoulet, perhaps with a bit of the _eau de vie_ that you keep hidden around here?"

"I believe she's already started a roast."

Holmes crinkled his nose in distaste, "Oh."

"But we can still open a bottle of armagnac if you'd like."

The detective's face brightened a bit.

To my surprise, as we stood Mr. Holmes grasped his son in a tight hug. Even more surprising, Holmes returned it without hesitation. He patted his cheek warmly, "I've missed you out here all by myself."

We made our way back down the hall. As we were descended the staircase, the elder Holmes considered me. "So, Dr. Watson, are you still in practice?"

"Not presently." I replied. "I was wounded in the war."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. What do you do to occupy your free time?" It sounded as though the gentleman was fully aware of how difficult it was to find things to divert your attention when you were used to be a more active individual.

'I try to keep up on medical journals. I also write…but I enjoy accompanying your son on his cases the most."

"Ah, his cases." He glances over his shoulder at his son, who was trailing a bit behind us. "I've followed them the best I can. The papers spoke very highly of you and your work with Scotland Yard. I can't express how much joy it brought me to read of your crusade against wickedness." We entered the dining room and began seating ourselves, ready and willing to partake of some hearty roast and potatoes. "I don't think I could be more proud if you took on the Father of Evil himself."

Holmes shook out his napkin and smiled, "I am afraid that's a little ambitious."

"Yes," his father conceded, "I think that is true for everyone. But, to be serious, son, is your job dangerous at all? Is the game really worth the candle?"

Holmes shrugged, "Fortunately, the criminals I take on are generally wise enough to know when they are bested. Besides, I have my trusty Boswell on my side should anyone be desperate enough to resort to violence." He nodded deferentially in my direction.

Madeline came out to serve us. As she filling my water glass, William Holmes peered over his own glass at his son. "How about taking on marriage?"

The question seemed to startle Holmes, who was midway into downing his drink. He shook his head and placed his wineglass back onto the simple, ivory table cloth. "Now _that _may be even more ambitious."


	17. Excerpt from a Diary Pt 6

Excerpt from a diary.

_  
We kissed for the first time in the sitting room after one of her piano lessons. She sat fiddling with the keys, striking haphazard chords that were jarring. I took it upon myself to take her up on her offer; the one she had laid out that day at the lake._

_It was chaste; naive in its swiftness and simplicity. We would sneak them from then on. Behind our parent's backs, while walking on the grounds, even in the hall with the chance of being walked in on. They were childish affections though; inexperienced and non-threatening._

_That only lasted for a few months though, before tapering off. We both began growing up; losing that inexperience that had allowed us our small indiscretions. We began realizing that kisses were not a game, not just for childlike kicks._

_That sadness the saturated her was a constant. I tried to comfort her without impropriety. I had a skill at observing and knew when she was upset. I also knew when she needed to be touched and permitted myself a gently stroke across her shoulder blade or arm, when I innately knew she desired it._

_We strove to treat each other properly; as two siblings should who were in their mid-teens. Not that we didn't search for ways to spend time together in private. We played music together during the day and then danced to the stillness afterwards, enjoying the ease of each other's company. It was thoughts of these flawless moments that caught my troubled mind and helped me make it through the drudgery of common existence._

_During her mum's frequent parties, we would hide out in the sitting room; listening to the muffled music and gossiping. She would press herself against me, dancing closer than was suitable. It was our own little world lying on the border of actuality. The guests on the other side of the door were existent but irrelevant; the music understandable but hushed by the doors of our own exclusive area._

_She would take off her shoes, without which her head only came up to my chest, and walk around the soft carpeting, relishing the abandon of something so simple but improper._

_It was during her eighteenth birthday, as the guests talked and gabbed away in the ballroom, that she pulled me through the doors, anxious to get away from her own celebration._

_She sauntered around the room, blowing out all of the candles but one; letting the glow of it cast shadows around on the walls._

_"What exactly are you about, buggerlugs?" I asked._

_She gave me a reproving glare, glancing about instinctively to be sure no one could hear my imprudent term of affection._

_"I want to dance with you." She floated over to me, slipping her arms around my neck and examining my face. "Do you want to dance? You seemed to be averse to it when Miss Turner asked for you to escort her to the floor."_

_I chuckled at her look of mockery in her eyes, slipping my hands contentedly around her waist; ignoring the twisting of my stomach as we made contact._

_"I did not feel comfortable with her attired as she was."_

_Lillian stifled an unladylike snort, "I am not sure you could say she was attired at all."_

_I raised my eyebrows, "Indeed."_

_She scrutinized my face in that disconcerting way that ladies do. She narrowed her eyes at me accusingly, "You think you're so handsome, don't you?"_

_The remark startled me, "No, I don't. Why do you say that?" I was stammering and she seemed to find it comical._

_"Because you wouldn't dance with any of the young women out there. Are none of them good enough for you?"_

_I opened my mouth to defend myself but was stopped when I realized she was laughing at me. "What is so humorous?"_

_"You. You look like a cornered animal." I could feel the vibration of her laughter dying down and she brushed the hair out of my eyes. "You know, you are handsome. One of the handsomest men I've ever known. I wouldn't have expected it from such a scrawny little boy."_

_Heat rose into my cheeks; flushing up, as I hadn't done in years. I sputtered out a thank you, dangerously aware of the shape of her against me._

_"You know, I told you once that you could kiss me whenever you desired. That offer still stands."_

_I stared at her; we had stopped dancing as some point and now were simply holding each other. I leaned forward to plant a brotherly kiss on her lips, trying to keep my self-possession. The kiss started out as virtuous as if we were truly related but as I was pulling away, her hand flittered into my hair and her mouth parted._

_One is very weak when one is in love. It was odd; amongst the real world, in daily life, women passed under my eyes without a second glance. Between father's warnings of the sins of the flesh, Mycroft's fear that I my emotions would tear me down as they did mother, and my own aversion to being made a fool of, I had trained myself to ignore them, to consider them as mere shapes passing by in my peripheral vision. It was my rule._

_Lillian was the exception to that rule._

_Despite all my practiced self-control, I could not overlook the feel of her ample chest against mine or the heat of her skin. I lost myself in my ministrations, letting my hands and my mouth do whatever came to them, without thinking about it. She began trembling in my arms, and I knew it was not from fright or grief. Her legs gave out under her and she grasped onto my shoulders, sucking in small breaths of air as I alternated my attention from each side of her mouth._

_Footsteps perilously close to the doors forced us to spring apart from each other. The sound faded away, as the person passed our room and persisted down the hall. Lillian had sought refuge at the piano, her back to me. She was supporting herself on the hard wood of the instrument. I could see her shoulders rising and falling as she breathed heavily._

_I ran a shaky hand through my hair and slid out of the room to get some air._

_Each encounter following is burned into my mind as if marked there with a searing iron. Our frequent walks became opportunities to fall into each other with tangled hands and sweet smiles. I became accustomed, nay, dependent on the feel of her mouth against mine; the territories of her body that she allowed me access to. In the autumn, her lips would be damp from the water that clung in the vapor. In her beauty dwelled my death and my life. I was shockingly in love with her; the very essence of her, and almost as shockingly terrified of her._

_We stole kisses in the garden at fall and during winter she would pull me close, slipping her arms inside my coat, losing herself in my clothes. I asked her if she were cold; she would squeeze my waist and tell me the snow made her sad. She wouldn't touch me as much during those chilly months; some remote melancholy gripping her and distracting her from all else._

_She began emptying herself out to me on those walks; like I was a vessel that she had to test out slowing, not knowing how much she could pour into before it overflowed. I caught pieces of her past, spoken fast and sporadically. I caught them in the tight net of my mind and stored them away, trying to put together a coherent picture, yet when it slowly began to be clear to me, I wished I could push it away. Her father had treated her cruelly; beyond cruelly. Her small hand would tighten on my sleeve when she spoke of him, as if reliving his abuse. I didn't comfort her._

_She didn't ask me to._


	18. Home Again

From the notes of John H. Watson

"Franz Liszt died last year." 

"I beg your pardon?"

My companion's face was hidden by his hat pulled low as he sat across from me on the train back to London from Yorkshire.

"Franz Liszt."

"Yes. I heard." I replied, accustomed to my friend's random conversation style.

He tossed his hat onto the seat beside him and straightened. "I saw a young musician perform his work once when I was 15 with my step-mum and Lillian in Ireland. Cecily admired him greatly, not just for his music but because of his generosity with both time and money. He devoted a lot of time to victims of disasters and orphans. Many students he taught for free. She worked a great deal on work and became quite adept at it. Lillian had more difficulty, but her fingers weren't as nimble yet."

"His work was very intricate I heard."

"Cecily was a composer herself. There was always music in that house. Though my own mother preferred Chopin. Her Death March was haunting. We use to play it together, though she said it sounded disturbingly evocative on the violin."

"Chopin has always been a personal favorite of mine. I could never master Liszt; I'm afraid I did not have enough patience."

Holmes looked at me sharply, the lights and passing scenery moving across his face. "You play the piano?"

"Yes." I thought that he had known that.

"Since when?"

"Since I was a boy. My brother and I both took lessons. I was much more willing than he, and eventually he gave it up to learn cricket. I never quite understood how anyone could find the piano distasteful; he didn't even like to listen to it." Learning the basics of that instrument were some of my most cherished memories. I wasn't as passionate as Holmes was of his fiddle, but I sometimes longed for some submissive and willing keys to purge my thoughts.

"Why did you not say so?" He looked a little miffed, though only heaven knows why.

"I suppose it never came up."

"You didn't bring a piano with you, did you have one before we shared lodgings?"

"No, I couldn't afford one."

He fell silent for a moment, staring at me intently. "We could get one." He stated hopefully.

I waved my hand away, "There is hardly enough space there, it's quite out of the question."

"Enough space?" He bit his lip, "I could move my chemicals…"

"I said it was quite alright."

"No, it's not." He snapped. I was a little shocked at his tone. "You should have mentioned it before, instead of letting my take over up the whole place with my mess." He was irritated at himself. As far as I knew, Holmes had never been one for self reproof; this was an odd turn. "I'll talk to Mrs. Hudson about it." He stated before I could protest again.

After that terse and inscrutable exchange and his last word, he got that faraway look in his eye and then slept for the rest of the train ride.

He was silent on the carriage drive and no more was spoken of Lizst or death marches. I was exhausted and fully planned on calling it a night. Unfortunately the grand machine of life had different ideas, as did a certain older Holmes son who apparently had no sense of manners as to when an unanounced visit would be welcome.

Holmes stopped halfway up the stairs to the sitting room. Cocking his ear toward the door as if he could hear something that I could not, he finally rolled his eyes and bounded up the steps.

I entered at a slower pace. He was hanging up his jacket and glancing around. I saw nothing amiss.

He slipped his hand into his pockets, "Come out of my bedroom." He addressed his door.

There was a rumble of laugh, quite familiar, and Mycroft Holmes plodded out of his younger brother's room, his eyes mischievous. "I was going to surprise you. How did you know I was there?"

"Well, the one sure sign was my microscope, which you have never failed to knock over during your visits."

The large man looked in the direction of the chemical table and then smoothed his jacket, "Yes, well, this room is too small."

Holmes eyed him blatantly, "I'm sure that's the problem." He turned up the gas and gestured to a chair. We all sat as he poured us some coffee that our lovely landlady had set out for our return. I decided not to partake, for I did very much desire to sleep tonight.

"Did you come here to nag me again?" Holmes asked as we situated ourselves, some with more difficulty than others. Holmes slid gracefully into his chair. We must have been comical to him, me with my wounded knee and his brother with his constricting bulk.

"I'm merely here to remind you." He huffed after he was down.

"I'm 32. I hardly think I'm quite old enough to forget things I was told 2 days ago." Holmes said testily as he bent to light his cigarette with a vesta.

"Baron Maupertuis is still at large. The French and Italian governments are at a loss." The elder Holmes stated, ignoring his brother's obvious disinclination to listen at the moment.

"So I must help them?" The detective was very adept at sounded put upon.

"You must help your own country!"

"Oh, has it touched England?" Holmes asked languidly, in my opinion, tying to draw his brother's ire.

"My God, have you not read the papers?"

"Just skimmed."

"Oh, bollocks! I've never known you to 'just skim' the papers." Mycroft voiced my exact thoughts.

"I've been busy."

"I can see that." He nodded to his brother's bruised face but didn't offer sympathy. "How is Lillian?"

Holmes sighed loudly and massaged his neck, staring at the ceiling despondently. "Growing annoyed with incompetence, I'm sure. I cannot seem to help her, nor can I turn her away. I am at an impasse. I am between the devil and the deep blue sea, between Scylla and Charybdis, between the hammer and the anvil-"

"Sherlock," His brother interrupted his melodramatic rambling, which seemed entirely connived to drive the older Holmes out of the house by sheer annoyance. "You wouldn't by chance be stalling to keep her here, would you?"

It was a jest, I could tell, but Holmes fixed his brother with a glare of such infuriation and disdain that even the impermeable Mycroft seemed uncomfortable by it.

"You insult me."

"I was only teasing." He apologized, though not very sincerely. "If you are fearful for her safety, I can assign someone to guard her. I can even put her in a secure location…"

'I can handle it." The response was snapped out, his cultured voice becoming clipped and short.

"Can you?" Mycroft murmured, staring at Holmes with an intensity that I didn't understand over so trifling a matter.

"Please, Mycroft don't act so superior towards me."

"Don't act prissy towards me."

Holmes grinned but there was no amusement behind it. The air suddenly seemed thicker in the room. The two brothers, who were usually so congenial with one another, were staring each other down. I was struck by how the appeared sitting across from each other with mirror poses. Their similarities were few at close inspection. They were both dominating presences, but where the younger Holmes was graceful and lean, the elder was lethargic and corpulent. One was striking with his dark hair and pale skin, while the other was dull with his mousy brown hair and lackluster skin. The only thing they shared were those grey eyes the color of glinting steel. Or, as one enamored lady had told me when she recognized me on the Strand as Holmes's flat mate, the color of "the gently rocking lochs of Scotland as fog hugs them." When I amusedly mentioned her words to Holmes later, he'd simply rolled his eyes and mumbled "what poetry", which was better than the "hmmph, women" that I had been expecting.

"So how is Lillian at present?" Mycroft asked, after a length of silence.

"I would think you'd know." Holmes answered, resting his head back once again against the dark wood of his basket chair. "I hear she's been to see you on more than one occasion."

"Her visits were short. I'm afraid I don't even know what she does to support herself."

"She's a piano teacher."

"Really? I never much cared for music."

"'The man that hath no music in himself, is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils."

"Tell me, Sherlock," Mycroft began with a touch of old weariness, "how do you find time to protect Miss Lillian when you're so intensely occupying with spouting off nonsense all the time?"

"I can assure you that we are keeping a fine eye on her." I volunteered to pacify them, though it did not seem to assuage the tension. Mycroft leveled that unfathomable gaze onto me, with the same intensity as his brother was capable but none of the humanity that was easy to see in the younger Holmes. I stood to rise, feeling that I was intruding.

Holmes reached over and soundly shoved me back into my chair. "Sit down, Watson. You'll have to pardon my brother. He's used to intimidating people into fleeing from him. He's forgotten his manners."

Mycroft laughed and softened his gaze.

Holmes eyed him with a measured look, "Did you come here to talk or to check up on us?" There was a note of banter in his voice but he seemed relatively serious.

"It is reassuring to see that you two are not sledding down the banister or engaging in any other…dangerous activity that you felt irresistible to do when you were younger." Mycroft gave him a knowing look, much as a father would.

"You have my word that we are behaving." Under the veil of repartee, I still sensed a crushing pressure in every word.

"How was father?" Mycroft asked, switching the topics and paying no heed to Holmes as he rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily.

I stood to leave again, seeing that they were going to speak of family matters. Holmes waved me back into my seat. I suddenly realized that he did not want to be left alone with his brother.

"Himself." He answered Mycroft's inquiry. "Warm, accepting, forgiving…all the things that make you feel worse about yourself."

Mycroft Holmes took a large swig of his now lukewarm coffee. "Yes, he is infuriating."

Holmes shook his head, "That isn't what I said."

"I thought he was most pleasant." I voiced, ignoring Mycroft's attention. My companion smiled wanly at me.

"He is. I may visit him here again soon when I'm not on business."

"It's about time." Mycroft blurted out, though he had just expressed displeasure of his father's company,

"That's ironic coming from you, dear brother. When was the last time you visited?"

"He's not expecting me."

Holmes exhaled hard and I could tell he was reaching the end of his tether with this conversation. "I'll take some time out to read up on the issue tomorrow."

"Good." Mycroft hefted himself out of the chair with effort. We both watched as he went about the arduous task of putting on his coat. "Come by my club…"

"I don't have time for that." I had never heard Holmes' voice so strident.

"Make time."

"I already informed you that I'd read up."

"And I am informing you that I wish for you to come by my club. I do suggest you start mugging up and get familiar with this little problem, the reputation of England will be relying on you." His voice was irritatingly pleasant, as if merely requested a lunch date with an old friend. His attention sharpened and he stared down at his brother. "Are you alright?" It wasn't the most sympathetic tone, but at least he'd asked.

"I will be in a moment." He glanced at the door expectantly. Mycroft did not miss the implication. He nodded, as if unbothered by his brother's blatant desire that he leave.

"I heard that she's to be married soon?"

Holmes nodded and they gazed at each other a moment. Mycroft cleared his throat curtly and left in a slow descent of effort.

As I retired to my own room, Holmes thanked me softly. I turned to see him curled up on his armchair, his shoes off and tie undone. I nodded in return, not wanting to embarrass him with effusiveness.


	19. Excerpt from a Diary Pt 7

Excerpt from a Diary.

_ I lit the long cigarette, taking a quick drag and inhaling contentedly. The gaslight lit over Cecily's silver case, making the purloined item move and waver. I inhaled a few more times on the smoke, my back to the door of my stepmother's parlour._

_ "And what do you think you're doing, Shy?"_

_ I jumped, startled, and moved to hide the case. I realized at the same time that it was a useless attempt, gripping the object in my hand and leaning against the desk resignedly. I had to smile at my own carelessness._

_ "You walk too softly." I murmured accusingly, turning to face her._

_ "Are you stealing my cigarettes?" She asked from the doorway, her hands on her hips and a charmingly stern expression taking the place of her usual good nature._

_ "Just one, Cecily," I attempted to defend, waving that one smoke around to show her the minuteness of my crime. I inhaled again, not quite ready to give up my treasure._

_ She strode forward, taking it from me with a snatching motion. She opened the drawer where she concealed them and crushed it out on a crystal ashtray._

_ "You're father would kill you if he saw you doing that." She reminded, closing the drawer softy and attempting to search subtly among her bodice for the key to secure it. I watched, amused._

_ "Father would kill you as well. So I suppose we both have good reason to keep this between us." I countered, whispering conspiratorially._

_ She gave me a shocked look, "Are you blackmailing me, young man?"_

_ I shrugged, smiling at her. She shook her head at me, groping around for the key with more vigor and frowning. After a moment of fruitless searching, she looked up at me with an expression of dawning realization._

_ She held out her hand, "May I please have my key back?"_

_ I smirked, outstretching my palm where the small trinket was hidden. She dropped it down the front of her décolletage and patted it._

_"I can't help but wonder what other items you hide down there." I remarked smartly._

_She made a scandalized noise, cuffing me harshly on the arm. "In only the past five minutes, you've managed to execute so many offenses that I'd think you deserve twenty lashings."_

_She moved away from me, leaving the empty threat in the air, and sat gingerly on the soft toffee colored divan, her bare feet lost among the furs of the sheepskin rug beneath the table._

_She pulled her golden and amber highlighted hair over one shoulder, and watched me. "Aren't you supposed to be at your lessons?" _

_"I quit them." I responded carelessly._

_"Did you tell your father that you were boxing?"_

_"No, I decided it would be best to quit them instead." I ran my finger over the edge of the desk, "It's not worth fighting over."_

_She was quiet for a long time, watching me with unabashed interest. Finally, she sighed. "Now I wish I had a cigarette."_

_I looked down at my pocket before drawing one of the other smokes that I stole out and handing it to her._

_She blessed me with a reprimanding glare but took the item. "Now you have forty lashes." As she searched around for her light, I struck a match and offered it. She leaned forward and watched as the end burst to life with an orange ember glow._

_She puffed a few times while I lit a candle beside her to mask the smell and turned the key in the door's lock to prevent anyone from walking in unexpectedly, something I should have had the foresight to do before committing my own theft._

_She watched my considerate actions. "I think you just knocked your lash count back down to twenty," she grinned as I sat on the table in front of her, "for good behavior. Don't they do that in prisons?"_

_"They don't lash people in prisons, I don't believe. You're analogy goes more with a ship. So when should I tie myself to the mast, captain?"_

_She kicked my ankle gently, laughing softly. I smiled back, rubbing my bare arms up to my rolled up shirtsleeves to warm myself against the slight chill crawling in under the windowsill._

_She touched my ankle again, softer this time._

_"Are you and your father fighting?" She asked quietly._

_I cast my eyes towards the ceiling and rubbed my chin tiredly. "I said a foul word in front of him." I finally confessed, a little ruefully._

_"That's because you've been spending time with that farmer's boys. They're a bad influence."_

_I stared at her in confusion, before shaking my head. "I haven't been keeping company with those idiots."_

_"Then why are you down at that farm everyday?"_

_I looked away, not comfortable with this conversation. She tapped my ankle again, encouraging me._

_"Because . . . the younger son told me one day when I chanced to run into him that at the waterfalls that some boys from town had been coming by and bothering his older sister while their parents and the elder sons were away. I've been going there to watch over them while they're alone, so that no ill befalls her." I picked at my fingernails, embarrassed for some reason. When I looked up, my stepmother was smiling softly at me. But she thankfully didn't' comment on my sudden burst of chivalry or give me effusive compliments on it._

_She reached forward, running her fingernails across my knee as if she were scratching the backside of a cat's ear._

_"Can I tell you something?" She inquired, so quietly that I barely heard her over the low hum of air outside._

_"Of course."_

_She took her time, suddenly more interested in the pattern of lace on the trimming of her Worth robe than in speaking to me. She picked at the corner of a detailed rose in the expensive fabric. The dressing gown was her one truly indulgent spend; her only white elephant. _

_"A few weeks ago," she began with a deep breath, "I . . . " She suddenly looked up at me, a nervous glimmer in her eye, "You mustn't tell your father any of this."_

_I nodded and smiled impishly, "I'm very adept at that, don't worry."_

_She didn't smile back. "I . . . I went to the doctor's a few weeks ago." She bit the inside of her lip, "and he told me that . . . " she stared at me while I sat dutifully, wondering what could be so difficult to say._

_"Told you what? Cecily?" I encouraged._

_"He told me that soon you were to have a little brother or sister."_

_My mouth seemed to get stuck in an open position. I nodded slowly, uncomfortable with such knowledge. Cecily for her part looked very much as though she had just crossed the Rubicon by confiding in me and now was looking back over her path with regret. _

_"Congratula-" I began awkwardly._

_"It's not so anymore." She cut me off, "A few days ago I discovered that it was no longer so." She whispered, her green eyes darkened with a wistful sadness and settled on the floor between my feet._

_I ran my hands over my face, unsettled by my role as confidant and at a loss as to how to comfort her._

_"I'm sorry." I murmured, inadequately, between my fingers, before cupping my hands at my chin and watching her as she sat there, suddenly looking very small and sad._

_"I don't want your father to know, I don't want him to blame me."_

_"He wouldn't." I reassured. _

_She smiled wanly, and then, suddenly, gasped for breath and pressed her palm to her chest. She buckled over, her face contorted in pain, one hand grasping desperately at my arm._

_"Mum?" I reached forward to steady her and she regained herself, leaning back on the divan and stretching her back._

_"Are you alright?" I asked._

_"I think so. It was a spasm, I think." She handed me her cigarette, "Perhaps these things really are detrimental to your health, as your father says."_

_A small sheen of sweat had gathered on her forehead in the hollow of her throat. Her nails had made small crescent moons around my wrist, which she now rubbed gently._

_"I'm sorry. I hurt you." She observed._

_I waved her hand away, "Are you feeling better? Should I fetch a doctor?"_

_"I've had enough with doctors for awhile." She replied mournfully and then rose shakily. She stood above me, rubbing the side of my face in the most pleasant manner and then pecking me lightly on the cheek. I kissed the tip of her thumb as she rose, inhaling the sweet scent of tobacco on her fingers. _

_"You're a good man, Sherlock," she whispered in my ear, "and you're father is proud of you."_

_"You don't know that."_

_"I do, he's told me." She straightened up to her full height, her hand still lying across my cheek, "I don't think he knows that you don't know." _


	20. Dew

Pieces of a Journal.

--

I love Michael, I do. It isn't something I should question. He is kind to me, and respectful. He compliments me and won't touch me without the propriety of his gloves. And this frustrates me. He wiped a feather away from my cheek today while at dinner, but with the edge of his napkin; looking at me with those romantic eyes but nothing else. How badly I had wanted to tell him to put the bloody napkin down and just touch me.

I sigh as the carriage bumps and rattles its way back to Baker Street. Back to the one man who had never hesitated to touch me with his bare hands.

Had we lived a debauched life? It hadn't seemed so at the time. When he took my hand and pulled me to him, or when we'd make our way silently up the hill, both knowing what we were going to do, it had never seemed so terribly wrong. It had seemed natural to feel his mouth on me, warm and comforting, and his fingers against my skin. Just as natural as tossing stones with him at the waterfalls. They were just affections, he'd never asked for anything more.

Then why did we hide? And we hid well, except from Mycroft and his damned know-it-all eyes. He visited unexpectedly once during the autumn school season for a week after my eighteenth birthday.

He walked into the house, saw Sherlock, and just stared at him until his brother looked away in shame. One look and somehow he'd known. He didn't mention it to mother or father. I think it frightened him worse then when we were fifteen. We were children then, and cloaked in an innocence that made things easier to deal with. But now we were grown and we no doubt knew exactly what we were doing, so what was there to say?

Fear had clawed at me that whole week. I couldn't even imagine what would happen if we were discovered. Would I be asked to leave? Or would Sherlock be turned out, as the man? Mycroft treated me nicely enough during his stay, though more reserved than ever before. I wondered if he reprimanded his brother, man-to-man. Sherlock never told me.

He'd woken me once, during the fifth day of his brother's visit, a quarter after six in the morning. I stared up at him. His eyes were red and he was fully dressed. He didn't have to tell me what he wanted so as he slipped out into the hall, I dressed hurriedly and followed him to the stables. He was quiet as he mounted his horse, reaching down for me. We'd done this many times; _I turned my back to him as his arm slid around my chest and lifted me up sidesaddle onto the horse in front of him. He grasped the pommel and kicked the horse into movement._

_Halfway up the hill, he'd started into one of his rambles; a sure sign that he was nervous. I listened passively, the water in the air hitting my face as we moved at a leisurely trot. I leaned back onto his chest so that he wouldn't have to steady me with his arms. He was in the middle of telling me the difference between a Lister-knife and a Jack-knife when I undid his scarf and let it fall to my lap. He stopped talking as I pushed his collar down and kissed his neck beneath his ear. I could feel his arms tense as he clutched the reigns tighter._

_He smelled like vanilla and tobacco, a lovely mixture and I snuggled closer to him as I sensed he enjoyed what I was doing._

_I smiled and continued my attentions. "Keep going." I encouraged. I wanted to hear his voice. The horse trotted along, oblivious._

_"And you can tell a man's trade by-" he sighed and leaned closer to me as I found the underside of his jaw. "-by his fingers or his muscles but usually," he swallowed hard, my name almost rolling off his tongue, "but usually you'll have to look for more specific things." He stopped. I moved my mouth from his warm skin and told him to continue. His frowned as I moved away and he pushed my head back towards him. I resisted and told him to continue._

_"Such as," he waited to feel my lips again, moving his shoulders appreciatively, "such as, for doctors, their hats will have an indent from their stethoscope, and writers will have calluses and ink stains on their fingers.' He stopped completely as I tugged on his earlobe. Pulling suddenly on the horse's reigns, he came to a stop and pushed me away, dismounting the horse. He held his arms out to me, his hands steady, and helped me slide down._

_Grabbing my arm, he wordlessly pulled me up the hill, though we were already out of sight of the manor. I followed him, my shoes already soaked with droplet of dew. When he turned, he ran his gloved hands down my covered arms and pressed his lips to mine. I sighed as if I'd been away from him for years. I felt him smile against my mouth. He lowered his lips to my neck, something he'd never done before, and mimicked my actions from a few moments. I balled his shirt up into my fists for support._

_He started away from me suddenly, leaving the cool air to float over my neck instead of his mouth. He walked a few feet away and picked up a stone with his leather-covered hands, tossing it into the distance like he did when we were at the waterfalls._

_"Did you know, buggerlugs," His voice was hoarse, "that hundreds of years ago, vampires came to this house and killed those living here in their sleep? Some people say they still wander around these trees at night. There were also rumors of sacrifices and people being buried alive. An old legend tells of a dead woman who slept in a coffin at the foot of her bed and lured men to her chamber to devour. She kept their hearts in jars that hung from her wall." His father would not have been happy about this sort of discussion. "Do you want to hear about it?"_

_"No," my teeth were chattering, "I want you to kiss me again."-_

-The carriage comes to an abrupt stop, waking me from me reminisces. I look out the window to the front of 221B Baker Street for a moment before paying the cabbie and almost ungracefully falling out of the carriage, my heart hammering because of my memories. I had quite expected that my feelings would have faded into a dull ache over the years, and that seeing my infuriating brother again would not have affected me so. But I suppose absence does sweeten endearment, as Shakespeare declared, and all the years apart from him only drew me dangerously closer.

The house is warm and I pull off my gloves and coat before mounting the stairs. I want to see if Sherlock has returned, though I know that I should just retire to bed.

When I enter the sitting room, Dr. Watson is not there but Sherlock lay curled up on his chair, his head on the armrest. His jacket is off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, I can see the curves in his strong neck, the tendons I had just been thinking of. I stand over him as he sleeps, and tentatively reach down to brush my fingers through his dark hair.

"I'm not asleep."

I jump and move away from him as he opens his eyes and lifts his head to regard me, blushing that I had been caught. I place my hand on the pot that sits on the table, feeling to see if the coffee is still warm. I pour myself a cup as I feel him staring at me.

I turn and catch the tail end of his familiar and impish grin. I lean casually against the table as I sip my coffee and watch his face resume its usual passivity. "You were gone all day."

He yawns and stretches, leaning forward in his chair and fixing his grey eyes onto me intently. "I went to North Riding."

I almost swallow my coffee wrong but recover gracefully. "Did you? Father must have been ecstatic."

I dark look crosses his face, "He was…pleased."

I had fond memories of that house, more so than painful ones. Every room reminded me of times we had spent together there.

The library is where he took up his language studies, devouring books as he rapidly learned Italian, Latin, Dutch, and German on top of is already fluent French and English and attempted to tutor me in them all.

The study is where we read together.

The piano room is where we practiced our music together.Even the hallway held the sweet memory of being chased by him as a child while he brandished a letter opener at me; both laughing hysterically as he quoted melodramatically "O happy dagger!" We were caught by mother who firmly, but not without a trace of amusement, told us that we were never, under any circumstance, to chase each other with sharp objects, and that we were never to butcher Shakespeare so terribly. We nodded and scampered down the stairs to steal some sweets from Madeline, though we both agreed that our way was much better than Juliet stabbing herself out of grief for her lost Romeo.

"Why did you go?" I ask, shaking myself from my sweet recollections. He is staring at me oddly, his gaze moving from my eyes to my mouth and down to my chest where I hold my coffee cup high. His gaze is remote and I know I would rather have him chasing me with sharp objects than this indifference.

He shrugs, "Why didn't you tell him about your note?"

I shrug as well. "There are a great many things people don't tell those close to them." I never told him that I dreamed of marrying him. That I would lie awake in my bed as a little girl and think of our wedding, until I grew up and it became a painful ache.

He sees me glance at the pale underside of his arm, where needle marks, some old and some new, are prominent.

He shakes his head at me, "I'm not in the mood."

"But I wish to talk to you."

He sighs but not in that sweet way he used to while I was kissing him. "Concerning what?"

"Everything." I mutter under my breath, but he hears me.

He glances at the grandfather clock and smirks, "I think it's a little late in the evening for a discourse of that magnitude."

I put my cup down with a clank, my hands suddenly trembling. "You don't appear ready to retire."

He stands and searches the mantle-piece for a cigarette, "I suddenly feel very tired."

I ignore him, trying to imitate my mother, who used to be so strong and assertive in important matters. "When did you start indulging…"

He lets my falter hang in the air a bit before responding. "You have to specify which indulgence you refer to."

"Do you have many?" I snap. He doesn't answer. I take a calming breath. "When did this begin?" I want to know when he had started to destroy himself and when he had begun to think it alright to risk that wonderful mind of his.

"That seems rather irrelevant now." He responds.

"Fine. Then _why_ did this begin?"

"Yes," he whispers, almost to himself, "_why_?"

I begin cleaning up the coffee cups, needing something to do. I pile the saucers on top of each other and brush my hands off. "Your father would be ashamed."

He's silent for a great while. I am about to apologize when I feel his hand on my arm, running up the length of it gently. "Are you ashamed?" He is so close that I can feel the heat from him through my clothes.

My heart skips and sputters as though it is going to give out. I look up at him. He still has that detached look in his eye that leads me to suspect that he is merely trying to distract me from our conversation.

I shove his hand away. "That won't work."

He looks hurt and I immediately worry that I had read him wrong.

He steps a few feet away and regards me coldly. I know most people withered under that stare but I stare at him easily, refusing to be intimidated. "_That_ won't work either."

He bristles, annoyed that I am unmoved, and starts to walk to his room. "Goodnight Lillian."

Hard as I try not to, I can't help but to begin crying. "Why don't you ever talk?"


	21. Eavesdropping

From the notes of John H. Watson

**Eavesdropping**

I was right in the middle of an odd dream. Mycroft was in the war with me, eating all my rations while I was off tending to the sick. When a young girl I had met in Afghanistan came to my tent one night to replenish them for me, out of the kindness of her heart, Mycroft had burst in and pulled her away, angrily yelling that he had warned us before about being alone together.

It was then that I awoke to raised voices. Shaking my head clear of the unsettling dream, I slid my slippers on and padded to the door, cracking it open to hear better what was happening. The voices were Lillian's and Holmes but they were speaking French. The tone was harsh and I could tell that they were arguing. I knew I should close the door and go back to bed, leaving the siblings to work out whatever strife was between them in privacy. But I was curious. Holmes would be appalled to know I was eavesdropping, but I was curious. I will try to translate what I heard the best I know how, though my grasp of the French language is tenuous at best.

"_Parce que_…it is none of your concern!" That was Holmes strong voice, rough and strangely emotional in a foreign tongue.

"It is!" Even upset, Lillian's sweet voice was never shrill. She was choked with emotion, so much so that I resisted the urge to go and comfort her. It would not have been appreciated by my friend.

_"Pourquoi?"_

_"Parce que je t'aime. Tu m'aimes aussi, n'est-ce pas_?" I understood that. _Because I love you. Do you not love me also?_

A deathly silence followed for a few moments after, until Holmes spoke again, his voice laced with a sneering anger. "_Garde ton amour pour ton fiancé." Save your love for your fiancé._

She began to sob in earnest but I heard no footsteps indicating that Holmes had gone to her. "Why have you changed so quickly?"

"Speaking will not alleviate the pain."

"_Ce qu'aidera?" What will help_?

"_Rien_. So why think of it?"

Her voice lowered as she answered, adopting a resigned melancholy. "Do they help you forget?

He didn't answer, though I heard him shuffling around, probably looking for a light. He smoked in stressful situations.

I heard the rustle of her petticoat moving farther away. She was leaving. Holmes voice was low as he spoke again, so much so that I had to strain to hear him, as much as it ashamed me to admit.

"I took laudanum in University because I had trouble sleeping." He spoke in English. "I moved on from there. As to why….I do not wish to speak of that. _S'il vous plait, Lily. S'il vous plait_."

The door opened and closed and she was gone without answering. I closed my own door silently, praying that Holmes didn't hear it and know I had been listening to their private conversation.


	22. Excerpt from a Diary Pt 8

Excerpt from a Diary.

--

_Her mother grew sick; and Lillian grew sick with her in spirit. I would catch her at her piano, gazing into nothingness, chin resting on her chest, her hands clasped together. I would stand behind her, lifting the tightly wound curls from her back and pressing my mouth against her spine; it was a vain attempt to let her know... something. She never moved or lifted her head, but a sigh would escape at the first touch, her shoulder blades shifting, deepening the crease that I trailed down her back with my lips. My mouth ran over her numerous scars; whip marks from a leather belt, I had deduced. My thoughts of their origin warred with thoughts about the moments we shared in the yard, shrouded by the trees to the eyes of any in the house and feel instant regret. It was not the time to think of these things._

_Cicely, for her part, grew more dependent on my company; beckoning me into her bedchamber to play notes for her on my violin. It was strange to think I had never been in her bedchamber before she grew ill, despite the fact that she had served as my surrogate mother for going on eight years. A few days before she died, I was received into her room as her and Lillian lay on the bed. It made me uncomfortable but both women seemed oblivious. A seat was patted for me and I sat down stiffly, feeling foolish; one woman was my stepmother and the other woman had shared my bed many times before._

_Lillian was curled up to her mother's back; her head resting above the older woman's. She looked at me with appreciation; knowing how much Cicely loved to hear me play. I lifted my violin to my chin but a weak hand on my arm stopped me; my step-mother grasped my upper arm, her fingers kneading into the material of my jacket. She looked sadly at me._

_"Sherlock . . . Shy?." It was whispered; I could not tell if it was a supplication or the beginning of some thought._

_I leaned forward slightly, "Yes maman?" _

_"Your eyes are so grey." I did not know what to say to this statement so I remained silent, sure she would speak again. "Your father's eyes are dark," she continued after a moment's hesitation, "you must take after your mother. I've seen her you know." She shifted her head to look at me closely, noting that I had turned away at the mention of my mother. "I saw a portrait. She was beautiful. Do you remember her?"_

_I allowed myself to be comforted by her affectionate grip on my arm as I struggled for an answer to such a painful question. "Yes - completely." I finally sputtered; always incapable of lying to her._

_"It was the first thing that I noticed about you when I saw you. Such an angelic little face but such cutting eyes; I felt as if you could see right through me."_

_I smiled weakly, not quite adept at consoling anyone. "I couldn't, I assure you. I merely thought you were pretty."_

_She matched my weak smile, "Such a charmer."_

_I blushed; something I needed to grow out of. When she spoke again, she choked on her tears. "I'm so sorry, dear.."_

_I shushed her, leaning forward to rub her back. Her camisole drew down slightly, revealing many aged and stark scars running horizontal across her back. Lillian moved to cover her. I pretended not to see but they both knew that I had._

_"I'm sorry that your mother was sick. I'm sorry that I've grown sick…I'll be the second mother you've lost, I never meant to put you through this."_

_Lillian sobbed at her mother's words, rising from the bed and moving to a shadowy corner to cover her tears. I kissed Cicely on the tip of her thumb. Her fingers smelled of cinnamon and brandy. I rubbed her back hesitantly; childishly fearing that her scars still stung and that my touch was hurting her. When I lifted my head up, she had fallen off into slumber and Lillian drew forward to grasp my hand. With strength I would have never supposed she possessed, she pulled me from the bed and led me out into the hall. She didn't speak as we continued into the piano room, all the while I trailed along like a subservient puppy._

_She spun to me suddenly, her eyes angry. I couldn't think of what I could have done._

_"Why don't you ever cry?" Her voice broke, fettered down by anger and grief._

_I didn't answer. There was nothing to say…I refused to tell her the truth. My weaknesses could not help her._

_She pressed her face into my chest and I slid my arm around her, comfortable with her touch, and only her touch. It hurt to admit that those horrid moments when my mother's hand had gripped tightly on my arm and her eyes had grown dark were more vivid than all the times her caress had been kind. Human contact made me uneasy._

_She sniffled and I kissed the top of her head. She was so tiny…it was as if she hadn't grown at all since we were 13. I hovered 3 inches above 6 feet now…I could crush her. I found it hard to believe that it didn't intimidate her. I would never feel relaxed around someone who towered over me. Lillian seemed to find solace in it though, snuggling into my chest as if it never occurred to her that I could hurt her._

_Would I always have to bend down to kiss her?_


	23. Resolved

From the notes of John H. Watson

**Resolved**

Holmes had a bad habit of standing by my bed and staring at me until I could sense him and wake. I asked him once why he did not simply rouse me as a normal person would. He told me he didn't really have the heart to wake me when I looked so peaceful.

I think he merely found it indescribably amusing to see me start so suddenly; seeing that fleeting expression of fear on my face before my mind cleared. I knew he found amusement in it by the tale end of a smirk I'd see on his face before he replaced it quickly with a faux look of concern. He'd reach his hand out and steady me. "_I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." _He'd say, but his look was insincere, I daresay even mischievous. On those rare occasions when I would wake with sleep-ridden eyes to see him standing casually by my bed, or leaning on my night stand, staring down at me bemused, I had to fight the strong, ungentlemanly urge to tell him to piss off.

He also told me that he found it odd that I was so much more observant in my sleep than I was conscious. Any way he could find to point out my dimness was taken advantage of. It was at times like these that I found myself questioning my decision to reside so near to him.

This morning though, when I woke to see him there, he neither looked amused or relaxed.

I sat up and stared at him, noting the lines around his eyes and the almost morose expression on his dark features. I glanced at my timepiece. I had slept late, after 11 o'clock, because of the night's activities.

"I let you sleep for quite a while doctor." He acknowledged.

The tone in his voice worried me. I sat up straighter. "What is it, Holmes?"

He surprised me by plopping down on the side of my bed heavily. It was highly unorthodox. I moved my feet out from under him just in time, avoiding any awkward contact. I tilted a bit with the compression of the bed, sliding closer to him.

"The case is solved, Watson."

He didn't appear particularly pleased and tossed a telegram onto the coverlet. I stared at it a bit before opening it and reading its contents. Holmes stared straight ahead at my wardrobe as I read, twisting his fingers jerkily.

**Dear Mr. Holmes**, (it ran)

**I have come across some information that may be helpful to you, if my line of thinking parallels yours, which, I hope, it indeed does.**

**Firstly, Mr. Charles Douglas passed on 3 days ago in his sleep. There was no autopsy, despite my insistence that it may be necessary and my belief that you would have preferred one.**

**All his belongings are to pass on to his only descendent.**

**What is highly interesting, sir, is that most of Mr. Douglas's belongings actually were inherited upon the death of his friend and prison-mate, Mr. August Stanhope, a toe-rag if there ever was one, who was hung for murder 2 years ago.**

**Doing some research on Mr. Stanhope has bore some fruitful information which, I feel, you will be especially interested in. In 1876 Mr. Stanhope robbed a jewelry store in SoHo, shooting and killing the proprietor. He escaped with his goods until he was found a few days later, attempting to board a boat to India. He was subsequently tried and convicted. Most of the stolen items were returned to the family of the deceased, except 2 rubies that were taken from the stores safe and which were of great monetary value; 250 carats each. Mr. Stanhope's possessions were thoroughly searched after his arrest but nothing was found. The few things in his luggage, besides the stolen jewelry, were some suits of modest cut, some shoes, and a toothbrush. All these things were turned over to Mr. Douglas, as was specified in Mr. Stanhope's will, after they befriended each other during their incarceration.**

**Mr. Stanhope was found to be deeply involved in a very organized group of criminals, whose schemes and activity is prevalent in Australia and some parts of England. Some of their members have been apprehended, but most are still at large and relatively out of our reach.**

**I hope this may be of help to you, sir, and assure you I am ready and willing to do all that you may ask.**

**Your friend,**

**Mr. Crowe.**

"Rubies?" I asked once the letter had been read twice. Was this really about rubies?

I stood and dressed as Holmes stared at the letter, turning it over in his hands. "Rubies are mentioned in the Bible and ancient Sanskrit writings. The ancient Hindus call them the 'Rajnapura' or 'King of Gems'. There are many beliefs about those small red gems. Early cultures believed them to have healing properties if they were ground into a fine powder and placed on the tongue. Warriors wore them into battle because of their protective abilities. The ruby was even considered to have magical powers, and was used as a talisman against evil because it was thought to grow darker when threat or peril was near and return to its common color when it had passed. I always preferred the theory, though, that its color comes from an internal flame that cannot be smothered; a symbol of interminable love." He fell silent as I shrugged on my coat, staring absently at the ground beneath his feet.

There was an odd tone in his voice, one that I only heard in the midst of his deepest and darkest moods, when his seven-percent solution was coursing through him and slanting his mind.

"Are these men connected to the late Mr. Stanhope the same men who accosted us?" I asked, preferring not to let him continue on whatever line of thought he was pursuing that caused him to shut down into one of those awful black humors.

He stuffed the letter into his pocket and stood, "I did some digging today into some archived papers as you slept so peacefully. Mr. Howard Leach, who was a prominent member of this organization before he slipped up and murdered his way into a noose, had an identical tattoo that could be seen as he hung. I am more than certain that Mr. Crowe will confirm that Mr. Stanhope and the late Mr. Douglas both bore the same tattoo once he receives the letter I sent him two days ago."

"What does the tattoo mean?"

"Mean?" Holmes snorted scathingly, "Nothing. It ties them together with some meaningless and insignificant image. It's a show of their allegiance…and perhaps of their masculinity." He smirked patronizingly. "After all," his tone was unabashedly acerbic, "only those toughest of characters can withstand the pang of the ink needle. Though, anyone who has undergone such a procedure can tell you that it doesn't sting so much after the initial shock but I admit that I am more impervious to pain than most."

I gaped as I followed him into the sitting room. "Holmes do you mean to tell me…"

He smiled enigmatically, without merriment, before bellowing to Mrs. Hudson from the top of the landing. "It's a long story, Watson," he reassured as he waited for the landlady, "For another time. Is Lillian here?" He inquired when the Scotswoman's tread could be heard in the foyer.

"Yes, sir."

"Could you tell her that her mystery is solved and that I strongly advise her to stay in today?"

He scribbled out a note and handed it to Mrs. Hudson to give to Lillian.

When she had departed, he grabbed his stationary once again and jotted a few words in his messy but elegant handwriting. "So Watson, what does this all mean to you?" He asked as he wrote.

I may not have been the brightest candle in the room, and next to Holmes I could feel downright simple and uneducated but I responded with confidence. "It is quite clear. Mr. Stanhope stole the rubies, hid them somewhere in his belongings, and then left it all to Lillian's father, much to the frustration of his cohorts."

He handed me his letter. "And do you now what this means for Lillian?"

I lowered my eyes. "Yes."

We fell into an edgy silence for a bit before I remembered that he had handed me his note. I read it swiftly:

_**Check the cufflinks. Forget the legalities, Ms. Holmes will not mind.**_

I looked up at him as he tugged on his coat and straightened his cravat. "Come Watson," he ordered as he stuffed the telegram back into his pants pocket, "we are to visit Mr. Church and have a wee chat."

Five minutes later, we had hailed a cab and were riding in silence to Norburry St. and certain conflict. Holmes was tense with anger, his fingers clenching the carriage seat beside his legs, his teeth gritting and tight.

"I am sorry about your sister, Holmes. She deserves better." I offered.

"If she were to marry him, he would be the sole beneficiary of all her possessions in the event of her death."

"Unless she specified otherwise." I confirmed.

He pursed his lips and blew out a long breath. "She wouldn't. Stop here!" He hit the top of the car and we came to a sharp halt before an investment and stockbroker's establishment. We exited the cab and Holmes handed the cabbie some change from his pocket. "Could you-" he was about to ask that the carriage wait for us to return but it took off without a word or a thank-you for our business. Holmes stomped his foot angrily, "Merde!"

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he fumed and did not apologize for his foul language.

Gazing up at the doors of our destination as if he were preparing to go to war, he straightened his broad shoulders and strode forward. "I suspected this all along." He confessed.

"You never warned Lillian."

He opened the door for me, allowing me to enter ahead of him. "I had no proof. She would have merely thought me…protective."

The lobby was small, carpeted warmly and possessing of posh seats. A young girl sat at a desk that trounced her, making her seem quite tiny as she stared up at us. She was petite and dark-haired, about two-and-twenty. She was not prepossessing in a conventional sense, but her face was open and pleasingly oval, spattered with a multitude of dark freckles that matched her chestnut hair and eyes. She smiled prettily up at my companion.

"May I help you gentlemen?" Her voice was husky, surprisingly contrary to her small frame. I could see why she had been chosen to greet the frequenters of the business; she was very lovely.

Holmes smiled smoothly at her, adopting that easy way he had with women when he put his mind to it. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate Dr. John Watson."

Her face changed instantly to awe. She smoothed her hair and stood to shake his hand, obviously affected by his name.

"It is a pleasure, Mr. Holmes. How do you do?" She managed to maintain her calm and obvious intelligence, though I could see she struggled in the presence of so well-known a personage.

"Very well, thank you." He bowed over her hand. "I was just wondering if we could steal a moment with Mr. Church, if he is not too busy."

She furrowed her brow, "Mr. Church? Why, he hasn't worked her in over half a year, sir."

Holmes arched a dark and sharp eyebrow, looking genuinely startled. "Is that so?" He murmured neutrally.

"Yes, sir. I came in here one morning in June and his letter of resignation was on my desk. We haven't heard a word from him since." She elaborated.

"How about his family?"

"He has none, sir."

Holmes was nearly shaking with anger as he we stood on the sidewalk after thanking the young woman and exiting. Holmes flicked his wrist to hail a cab. "Do you know what this means?"

"I have no clue." I admitted. The turn of events was baffling to me. Why would Mr. Church lie about his employment?

A cab passed us by and Holmes cursed once more, a bad habit developing today. As the next one started to speed by, he stopped it by stepping off the curb, nearly getting run down in the process.

"Oy, this cab 'ere is already in use!" The cabbie shouted.

"There is no one inside." Holmes countered, his hand on the horses bridle.

"I'm on me way-"

"Not anymore." Holmes declared and slapped a generous amount of coins onto the seat next to the cabbie.

His attitude changed immediately and he bowed the best he could from his perch, "Of course, gentlemen. Hop on."

"I thought so." My companion mumbled as we hefted ourselves into the carriage. "To Paddington St. please…and quickly."

"How do you know where Mr. Church resides? I asked once we were settled and the carriage had begun rolling.

"I followed Lillian there once."

I twisted my cane in my hands as Holmes began tapping his fingers in a very exasperating manner on the wood paneling of the car. "Did you know," his fingers stilled, "that in Greece, there were certain warriors called the hoplite's who carried large shields that they had to maintain themselves? The shields were a protection but they also caused them to veer to the right because of its weight. The shield was also on the left, which left the right side fairly vulnerable and unprotected. This forced the men to push to the right so that the shield of the next man would overlap his own and protect him."

"That would hinder the battle would it not?"

"Indeed, if, as a collective group, all members did so. But it was not uncommon for the soldiers to station themselves next to their friends and companions, whom they trusted to shield them on the vulnerable side if danger was imminent. There was a large amount of trust needed between two men in order for their fighting not to be hindered by the other, and to be sure that they mutually protected each other. For if the man on the right constantly hid behind his companion's shield, he'd be of no help, but a the same time, if the man on the left did not shield his exposed friend, then he would be killed. It was a precarious balance that had to be maintained."

I nodded, unsure as to why he was telling me this interesting, but trivial, piece of history.

He glanced down at the lump in my jacket pocket, where my revolver rested. "I can always trust you to have your shield out and ready, Watson." I blushed as I realized what a fine compliment he was bestowing onto me. He opened his own jacket, revealing his own revolver tucked away. "Though, I do say I came a bit prepared myself." It was unusual for Holmes to bring his handgun with him; he possessed an alarming disregard for his own safety.

He patted it, a bitter and almost frightening smile gracing his features as he gazed back out of the carriage window.

I hoped it did not cause him to veer dangerously as we faced Mr. Church.


	24. Excerpt from a Diary Pt 9

Excerpt from a Diary.

_She closed the door behind us and promptly turned her back to me, lowering her dress from her shoulders. I drew back but stopped as I saw what she was trying to show me. I had seen the scars many times before; but her blunt indication to them made them much more real than ever before._

_"It happened on Sundays." She started, in a voice that would have been haunting had it not been blurred by the occasional cracking of her voice. I didn't bother to ask her what she meant; she continued after I drew closer to her, my fingers hovering above her exposed skin._

_"Always on Sunday; on the cheap throw rug by his bed. He would beat her before me; she passed out before it was my turn. I was thankful for that." She lowered her head, as if she had done something wrong. "He would yell at us for getting blood all over the rug. He'd burn it and buy another the next day; same color, same price. He was a beast and a drunkard; a heavy stone that hung around the neck of that house. The mere sound of his tread made me want to run in fear of him. At 6 years old, I awoke to a knife at my neck when he was out of his mind. At 6 years old I faced death. I was never child and the world was lost."_

_I moved forward to kiss her neck, not knowing what to say. She moved away from me, a look of disgust flittering across her sad features. "That isn't what I need."_

_I stood there as she settled down at the piano, playing a melancholy tune that I did not recognize. She did not raise her eyes to me as she spoke, "Tell me about your mother…about what happened to her."_

_I stared at the back of her head for what must have been five minutes. I went to sit next to her and she stopped playing, allowing me to strike a few chords. I was not nearly as talented as she was, but I'd had my share of lessons and knew a few songs. The music died away when I grew tired of avoiding the request._

_"She was quiet," I started, "and always a touch sad. Father was kind to her and took care of her; just what she needed and, I presume, what he needed. She taught me to play the violin and read me literature. She had an odd way of looking at the world. Mycroft and her were not close, but she mothered me and I was…devoted to her. So much so that it is impossible to put into words adequately. I missed her greatly; I still miss her greatly at times…most of the time."_

_"What happened to her?"_

_"She grew pale and thin around my sixth birthday. Her mind started to go; she began speaking nonsense about…someone coming to destroy my soul. Just mine, not my brother or father's, mind you. I was her angel; and as such I was in mortal danger from some evil that only she could see. Father kept it hidden from the public for almost a year. There were times when she was completely normal; speaking to me about my studies and then the next moment, her eyes would grow dark and someone would rush me out of the room to spare me the sight of her insanity, though the idea of it was enough to terrify me. Father did not wish to put her away… he loved her dearly and the way of those places was alien and opposing to his compassionate nature."_

_Lillian was staring at me now, seemingly finding some weird comfort in my confession. I persisted, "She had the gift that Mycroft and I have; to be able to see things so clearly. She could connect facts and details in her mind so accurately that you could hide nothing from her. Even as her mind became infected, she kept that. She was brilliant…and so sympathetic to everything around her."_

_Mycroft said that it was what had killed her in the end. The world became too abrasive to her; every observation followed closely by a wave of feeling. Mycroft said it tore her down from the inside until it was too much to bear. I heard him tell father to watch me; that I was too much like her. Mycroft, on the other hand, had the blessing of detachment. He could look at everything around him as if staring through a high-powered microscope until every aspect and detail was frighteningly clear, but remain so unmoved by it all."_

_"Why did she die?"_

_"A year after she first showed signs of mental…incapacity, father found her one day in her bedchamber. She was…cutting herself all over and mumbling about digging the iniquity out from under her skin. I saw her as they rushed her out to the doctor; blood everywhere, but she remained completely unaware of it. Father had no choice but to confine her after that. We visited every week, sometimes she wouldn't recognize me. I cried every night for her. Mycroft took on the rough role of consoler, trying to distract me with what he called 'brain work'." I felt Lillian shift angrily next to me._

_I continued, "She killed herself during one of my visits, with a butter knife on her food tray. I was alone with her and I didn't say a word…even though it took her at least 20 slashes before she cut deep enough. She hugged me and then it was over."_

_"You didn't try to save her."_

_It wasn't a question but I still felt compelled to answer. "To what purpose, buggerlugs? She was suffering; in her heart and her mind." I exhaled had, not realizing that I had spoken in one long breath. "I got her blood in my mouth…tasting like sucking on a copper coin."_

_"You asked me once what I felt when my father struck me . . . I remember your father once said that there was something beautiful in the moments before death. A harmony of all things. A shedding of the skin of life into the new flesh of heaven. I felt that, every time. Your mother felt it too, somehow I'm sure of it." She rested her head on my shoulder and cried for me and for herself._


	25. Dim Lit Church

From the notes of John H. Watson

**Dim-Lit Church**

Paddington Street was an odd mix of modest flats and commercial shops, usually family run. Mr. Church's room was on the second story of a clean but old building across the street from a cigar and cigarette maker who sold a nice blend of Turkish tobacco.

After talking to the landlady and revealing who we were, we gained entrance to the second landing on our own. Holmes knocked on the door of Mr. Church's room and stared at the door knob as if willing it to turn. A few moments passed in silence as he cast his grey eyes over the scuffed wood of the walls. There was a window at the end of the hall, looking down into the alley between the building and the tailor's shop next door. Holmes sauntered over to peer outside into the frost-ridden sky, the floorboards creaking under his heavy winter boots.

Unfortunately for me, he was still down the hall at the window when the door finally opened, leaving me face-to-face with a youthful man with reddish-brown hair and wide hazel eyes. He was my height, give or take an inch, with broad shoulders and a clean chin. Holmes heard the door open and advanced to us quickly,

"Mr. Church?" His voice preceded him.

The young man popped his head out the door, watching my companion approach with his long strides. "Mr. Holmes!" He exclaimed, recognizing the detective, "I was wondering when you'd stop by; Lillian mentioned that you wanted to meet me."

Holmes shook his hand brusquely, and glanced over his shoulder into his room after introducing me as his associate. The man took the hint and invited us in hastily.

"Have a seat." He offered as he cleared the chairs of the modest table that rested in the middle of the room. His flat consisted of a sitting room and a bedroom and was highly cluttered.

Holmes watched him straighten up, letting him finish the task before declining the offer and slipping his hands into his pockets. "We'll stand, this won't take long."

Mr. Church nodded, amused at my friend's rudeness, observing Holmes as he turned to eye the pictures on the mantelpiece.

"You look as though you got into a bit of a tussle there Mr. Holmes." He commented dryly.

I could see my friend's jaw tighten, the lines of his face smoothing in controlled anger. "Yes, well, some people lack the eloquence of speech and feel the need to resort to uncivilized behavior." He started to remove his gloves but, after casting a suspicious glance about the room, decided against it.

"Indeed." Was the oblique reply. "So what is it you wanted to speak to me about Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes continued to finger the photographs, stopping at a cabinet picture of his sister. He stared at it a bit, "Just trivial things; what you're bringing into the marriage, you're future plans and the like…" He picked up the frame and held it in his hand as he turned to regard our host. "I guess we could start off with your name."

Mr. Church's eyebrows crept up, "My name? I believe you know my name."

Holmes smiled amiably, the white tint of his knuckles clutched about the creamy yellow back of Lillian's picture the only physical clue to his feelings. "No, no. Your real name."

Church sat at the table, a smirk on his face. He sighed long-sufferingly, "What nonsense are you speaking of, sir?"

Holmes echoed his sigh and leaned against the mantelpiece, staring up at the ceiling as if greatly put out. "I got the impression from Lillian that you believed me rather dull and I see now that this is true, which, I fear, means that I will be forced to bandy words with you now."

The auburn-haired young man's face took on the most open look of surprise. "You are barmy, aren't you?" I wondered who had suggested the possibility.

Holmes's voice was low as he answered, taking on that misleadingly neutral tone that covered over his severe irritation. "_What_ is your name?"

They gazed at each other for an interminably long time before Mr. Church's look of innocence transformed into look of self-satisfied overconfidence. He knew he could not deceive my friend, but he did not appear worried. "Do you think I am that foolish?" He lit a pipe and puffed on it, watching Holmes for his reaction.

"No," Holmes regarded the picture in his hand once more before placing it gingerly back at its place, "which would also mean that there is no point it attempting to persuade you to tell me where the real Mr. Church is right now."

The so-called Mr. Church puffed more on his pipe imperturbably, "If what you are implying is true, do you think he'd be anywhere where you could find him?"

Holmes shrugged, "I'm very efficient at finding things."

"How about a great many things, in a great many different places?" Our two-faced host replied evenly.

My hand intuitively clutched at the pocket that housed my revolver as the meaning of his words sunk in. I had delegated myself to a mere bystander of this interplay, ready to come to the side of my friend if he needed me and logging away all that was said for future need, but I let an exclamation of disgust slip out.

Mr. Church glanced at me, unruffled, while my friend did not seem to notice my outburst at all. "Ah…" Holmes whispered, a knowing look coming over his sharp features, "That does seem like a good deal of effort and, as my friend here can attest, I am indomitably lazy." He commented snidely.

Church knocked his ashes out into a wooden tray on his table and stood. "Well, then I think this would be a good time to bid you adieu. I do, after all, have a wedding to attend to."

My companion's hand stole quickly into his coat, baring his revolver and glaring darkly at the man. His eyes had turned a strange dark blue, almost cobalt, as his anger fogged them. "_Sit_ _down_."

Mr. Church scowled at the gun and the warning snarl that had accompanied the detective's command. He remained standing, insubordinate and stupidly bold. "So what do you intend to do, Detective Holmes? Drag me to the Yard with no evidence or proof and make outrageous claims?" He glanced at me, noting that my own hand had disappeared into my jacket pocket. "I must warn you that I have a great deal of powerful friends who would be greatly insulted for me."

Holmes threw his head back and laughed heartily though the sound rang hollow to those who knew him well. The gun was still calmly raised. "I have been a detective for some time, sir. Threats are common place, so much so that I am sure you can forgive me if I do not take yours too seriously." He straightened, sliding out of his relaxed posture by the fireplace. He was the most dangerous in this mode, though by all appearances he seemed composed. "To answer your question, I intend to do very little. I am certain that by the end of this conversation, you will be ready to scurry your way back to your hole, wherever that may be, to all your other little rat friends, to do whatever it is you do as you wait for another piece of moldy cheese to land opportunely by your door." Out host merely smiled at the insult. "And," Holmes persisted, "it will matter not to me, as long as you are far from me and my family."

Mr. Church tapped his chin thoughtfully, mockingly. "There is one problem…I cannot scurry off anywhere; I have a wedding approaching."

"There is no wedding."

"Says who?"

"Says I." Holmes sighed, "There is no point perpetuating this charade any longer anyhow. Those gems will be quite safely in the police's hands soon and all you will receive from her is a few dusty suits, excluding the cufflinks, of course." He lowered his voice harshly, "She can give you nothing you want now."

Mr. Church's face flushed up at this new information. He narrowed his eyes at the detective before raising his chin audaciously, his eyes gleaming wickedly. "There might still be something I want from her, she's quite . . . vibrant." He drawled suggestively, trying to goad my friend.

The gesture worked, though Holmes hardly moved a muscle except to lower his gun slightly, his aim dropping treacherously. The gesture made me tense up but I didn't dare say anything to reprimand him; it mattered not a whit to me - he could pull the trigger anytime he wished.

"Mishaps happen commonly with handguns…a slip of the finger when you think the safety is locked, for instance." The detective lectured dispassionately, "I have a reputation at Scotland Yard as being quite absentminded, and my word is respected enough so that if I claim any misfortune that befalls you was merely an accident, it will be believed without question…especially with a witness." He nodded at me and nodded back, backing up his bluff, or at least, what I hoped was a bluff.

He didn't raise the level of his shot, cocking his head curiously. "Were you going to kill her?" He asked softly.

Church, who had stiffened considerably with Holmes new aim, smiled, though I could tell he labored to look unaffected by the position he found himself in. "Why would I? She's a lovely lady and would be a pleasure to live with. As long as she did not become too nosy of my doings, we could have gotten along swimmingly. Even if she had suspected something, I'm sure she would have disregarded it, as women usually do with their common sense and intelligence when they are romantically tied to someone."

It was an assertion that could have come word for word from my friend's own mouth; indeed, I had heard him spout such theories before during our acquaintance but the statement seemed to anger him in relation to his sister. He exhaled hard, his breath slamming from his lungs harshly. His tongue snaked out to touch his top lip as he lunged forward suddenly, grasping the offending man about his throat and shoving the nuzzle of his pistol low into his belly. I sprung forward, shocked, before moving father back and removing my own revolver from my pocket, fully equipped to step in if something occurred that put my friend in danger.

"Here is what we are going to do." Holmes hissed through clenched teeth, his face intimately close to his captive's, "You are going to write an agreeable, heartfelt letter of regret to my sister, elucidating that you are simply not ready for marriage but that you love her dearly." He explained, his voice shifting into the emotionless tone he assumed when he was giving unquestionable orders. "Then you will depart England. I will not follow you, nor bother you. Unless, of course, you step foot in London again, or if I hear, or even feel, that you are close to my sister again." He "tsked" at Church's look of disbelief, "I will not protect you, though, and if your deeds catch up to you, then I must allow the law of the land to be upheld. Are we quite clear?"

"That's it?" Church gasped, his fingers still around the detective's grip on his throat, though he stilled as Holmes gave his instructions. "As long as I stay away from your sister, you will leave me alone?"

Holmes shrugged, stepping back slightly and releasing his hold on the man's throat, though he kept his gun leveled on him. "I am entirely reluctant to go rooting around for evidence against you. And I do admit to a certain amount of satisfaction in knowing your reception amongst your comrades will not be an entirely warm one, considering how badly you butchered a very simple assignment of _marrying_ someone."

Mr. Church's face flushed in anxiety at this recognition but it quickly melted away into smug apathy. "I'll consider it."

Holmes shook his head, as if lecturing an unruly child, "No, you will do it. Because you realize that I am just as efficient in covering over a crime as I am in uncovering one. And Dr. Watson will assure you that my morals are not very strong once I've gotten it into my mind that something must be done."

The man lifted his chin, appraising Holmes. "Are you assuring me that 'something' will happen to me if I disobey you?"

"Yes." Holmes started to pocket his revolver, apparently satisfied with end of the conversation. I followed suit.

"Oh, by the way," he began, as if remembering something important, and withdrew his gun once more to smash it viciously into Church's mouth in a nasty undercut, "I think you may need stitches." Holmes commented smoothly as Church landed on the table, scattering his pipe and ashtray and bringing his hands up to cup the injury, blood gushing from his lip and gums.

"Good day." My friend bowed disdainfully.

We left then, Holmes bounding down the steps of the landing two at a time. I hurried to catch up, my leg wound preventing me from gracefully keeping stride with him. "Holmes!" I exclaimed.

He slammed through the front door fiercely, reaching the sidewalk before me and ignoring the cry of protest that his noise provoked from the landlady. I struggled to keep up. "Holmes!"

He tucked his head down as it had begun snowing when we were inside. His breath blew out in short _poofs_ of fog. "I am going to the telegraph office, Watson." He offered as if I had inquired.

I shook my head, finally reaching his side, "Holmes, you intend to let a murderer go?" He had done so before, when he felt a certain amount of pity and, I daresay, understanding for the perpetrator, but I hardly thought that could be the case this time.

He shrugged and stepped out of the way as a tightly bundled up women skittered between us. "I suppose." He answered blithely.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, pulling up my collar against the cold and striving to keep pace with him and his long legs, "That's unthinkable! What of the injustice-"

"Life is injustice, Watson. Anyone who tells you otherwise is either mendacious or a complete simpleton." He barked, causing me to stop momentarily in shock.

In that instant, I understood what he had done. "You will let him go merely to spare her feelings?" I asked gently. My words halted him.

He turned to face me, shivering slightly in the cold or with some emotion, his grey eyes void of color entirely, "She means more to me than the late Mr. Church. And I am sure that imposter in there will be caught eventually, if not for this crime, than for another, and he will swing. It matters not to me what he swings for."

I nodded, massaging my knee. "If she discovers what you have done…she will not forgive you for lying to her." I felt honesty would do her more good than to carry a misconception about in her heart, especially if it may be uncovered at another time.

Holmes crossed his arms, rubbing them with his leather-gloved hands. "No…but at least she'll know I was trying to protect her." He sighed and then regarded me, "Do you have errands to run today?"

I did indeed need to stop by the bank, and had intended to stop by the tailor's, but I did not feel it was very imperative now. "What are you going to do?"

"You needn't come along." He assured, "I am going to the telegraph office…then I may pay a visit to a Father."

"You intend to visit your father today?"

He raised his face to the hollow grey and purple sky, ripped with snow and seemed to lean into the wind unconsciously. His dark hair ruffled slightly, his breath obscuring his features and hovering above him.

"Not my father, Watson." He clarified quietly, still speaking to the heavens, "Not _my_ father."


	26. Pieces of a Journal Pt 4

Pieces of a Journal.

Most of my bags had been efficiently packed and placed on the hard-wood floor of the sitting room. The letter I had received that morning by over-night post was unexpected and needless to say, mystifying.

Michael had been a nice man, full of sugary smiles and compliments but all along I think I knew that my marriage day with him would not come to fruition. Perhaps I always suspected him of deception, but suddenly now I felt safer. Something settled in my chest, reassuring me that I was in no more danger. Even if I were, however, I felt the need to escape from this house. I was no longer guarded from the danger here; no longer being able to claim that my affections lied elsewhere.

Not that I had put on a very good show of that lie anyhow.

I heard his footsteps on the stairs as I was packing my last bag with my books and necessary papers. He hadn't returned yesterday after insinuating the resolution of my case and running off.

He watched me pack after entering, remaining soundless as I bustled around the room. He struck a match, outwardly at ease with my departure. I break the silence; I didn't realize how is thick the air is until my voice cut through it.

"I have a ticket for a train to France this afternoon."

He didn't reply at first, one arm crossed across his chest, his other lazily holding his cigarette. "Perhaps that is for the best," he started, "I am to travel to Florence tomorrow. I've been called on a case."

I looked at him over my shoulder as I stuffed my shawl into the side-pocket of my luggage. "What kind of case?" I fought to sound conversational, which is one of the more difficult things to do when your chest feels as though someone were chipping away at it with a cold ice-pick.

"A swindler has eluded the police across Europe; the authorities have grown desperate, and when desperate, they call on me." He shifted on his feet and I could see his eyes running over me in worry. "Why have you decided to go?"

"You've finished the case, haven't you?"

He cocked his head at me, waiting for me to confess the real reason to him. I pulled out the letter from my bodice and hand it to him. Michael had written in such a flowery and insincere way that it was embarrassing to show to anyone, but Sherlock merely scanned his eyes over it, reading it purely to catch the drift. He handed it back to me without a word and I stuffed it into my dress.

"I'm terribly sorry."

I dismissed his pity with a wave of my hand and pick up my bags; he didn't move to help me, his gaze boring into me, oblivious to my effort. "I think a change of scenery will do me some good. I think I'll go to California after I settle my father's affairs. I need some distraction from the cold and snow…it makes me feel miserable."

He makes a strange noise behind me, sounding like a word caught in the back of his throat. I spin to face him, taken aback and worried. There's a whirlwind of feeling gathering in his grey eyes, giving them a dark look.. I'm stunned by the intensity, so familiar but almost forgotten in the passing of minutes, days, years without him. I step to him, dragging my heaviest bag across the floor and touch his face.

"There you are." I murmur, more to myself than to him. The man I use to know was in front of me now, passion smoldering in his eyes; the eyes I thought had grown too bitter to burn any longer.

His nails brush across my cheek and neck and I wait for them to travel to my mouth before gently planting kisses upon the knuckles of his closed fist and pressing my face into his palm. He lifts my chin and kisses me, his lips working mine apart expertly. He's as used to me as he is to his old violin and knows exactly what chords to press to get the best response. My head starts to swim and all heat from the air seemed to grip to my body. I push him away, breaking off the kiss abruptly. I don't get far in distancing myself from him, though, as he slips his arm around my back to keep me near.

"It is a pity to exist while not in love." I quote breathlessly, though I know not where I had heard the saying.

"But it is an agony to exist while you are." He retorts; his breath is low and brushes against my neck.

I pull away and pick up my bags to walk to the door; needing to get away from him.

"Whatever it is you're looking for Lillian," he stops me as I was opening the door, "whatever it is that will make you happy…it's not me. I will only let you down."

I smile, wondering when we'd become so grown; when we'd stopped being that little girl and boy playing by the lake.

"I'm not looking Sherlock. I don't need to look anymore. I found the only thing that made me happy that day you fetched my hat for me from the lawn…but then you grew up and started to think you needed to do more for me."

"That wasn't it." The low tone stops me before I can make it to the door. "Do you know what the iniquity was?"

I face him, gripping the handle of my bag tightly until my palms sweat. "I don't know what you mean." I reply softly.

"That my mother tried to rid herself of?"

I nod as my throat closes and prevents words.

"It wasn't the devil or some malevolence that my father warned about in his sermons. It was herself, that odd mix that made up that peculiar and beautiful person…her own thoughts and feelings that eventually killed her. That was the evil she feared. And she saw herself in me."

I take a few breaths to calm my stomach, which is threatening to betray me, and stare at the table as I digest the dreadfulness of his words. "You believe that don't you? Your mother was an average person with thoughts and feelings," I state firmly, "she wasn't cursed with anything. She was ill. If you can't handle the yoke of emotion than it only means you are a coward and that is nothing exceptional."

His smile is brief and vague. He raises his hand to feel my hair, "You have no idea, buggerlugs, of what . . . " He lets his words hang in the air, his hand dropping dejectedly; resignedly.

I huff and give him my back. "So that is it then? You will merely say that you loved me once but have now swept it away? Is that enough for you?"

I peer at him over my shoulder as he frowns, bewildered at my words. "Loved you once?" He falls silent for a moment before continuing softly. "A man cannot sweep away his soul, but he can control it; make it stay still."

His admission angers me even more. I leave then, ignoring the sound of his footsteps as he comes to stand on the landing and watch me.

I know I will never see him again.


	27. Excerpt from a Diary Pt 10

Excerpt from a Diary.

_I never slept through the night, not since Lillian had stopped her nocturnal visits. I was wandering around the halls on the early morning when it happened, trying in vain to find something to distract my mind. I even considered going outside and roving around the dew; anything to preoccupy myself from what was happening around me. The house was heavy with sorrow; suffocating like a funeral parlour. Grief seemed to seep in and slide down the walls, rising to shroud the halls in a mourning veil. It was constricting...dark and somber. Cecily was nearing her end, her heart weakening with every beat. Though, I suppose that was true for all of us. I didn't wish to think of it, or how I was to go about telling my father that I would be leaving in a fortnight...that I was running like a coward._

_I do not know if I were loitering outside her bedchamber on purpose or if it was all an cruel twist of fate, but I slowed passed Cecily's door and she picked up on my tread. Her voice called to me, feeble and strained. I did not have the heart to pretend I did not hear her. I entered quietly, watching her as she turned her honey head to look at me, her face painted with moonlight. The air was bitingly cold; she requested that all the windows be opened because the cool comforted her. The chill seeped through my robe, hitting my bare chest but I didn't bother me._

_I whispered her name inquiringly._

_"Shy?"_

_"Yes, Cecily?"_

_"Come here."_

_I went to her bedside, taking her small hand and instinctively touching her forehead. "Do you want me to get father?" Her skin was pale and near-frozen. "Are you cold?" I didn't give her time to respond as I felt around on her face, trying to warm her._

_She put a calming hand on mine, ceasing my movement. "I'm quite alright. I like the cold, it makes me feel-" She trailed off and I knew what she was going to say. I wondered if she were frightened to go to sleep._

_"Let me get father."_

_"No." She tugged on my arm as she scooted over, the movement causing her to touch her chest lightly. "Come here."_

_I balked and tried to stand, "Let me get father." I had never been so inelegant in my life._

_"Please."_

_I obliged after a moment's hesitation, sliding onto the covers next to her, keeping one foot on the ground as if it lessened the offense. Though, I suppose there really was no offense, she was my mother._

_But she wasn't._

_She sighed and laid her head on my shoulder, tucking her hands to her chest, much to my relief. My arm was trapped beneath her. I closed my eyes and envisioned that the hairs tickling my chin were black and unruly and that the woman seeking comfort from me was indeed my mother, now that I was old enough to give it. I opened my eyes to blonde strands, so much like Lillian's that I had to remind myself that it was not._

_"I think it will happen tonight. My heart feels like its been beating for a thousand years...it slows every second." She murmured peacefully._

_I swallowed and stroked her hair, my concern blotting out my discomfort. There was a pain in my chest, as if my heart had skipped and tripped over itself before resuming its normal pattern. I could hardly imagine the house without her loquacious chatter, or her petite hand ruffling my hair, which she never ceased even as I outgrew her reach. As a child, I had developed quite an infatuation with her. I would follow her about and watch her arrange her flowers or sew her frilly things; something that was frowned upon by the older men of the house. I was lost and lonely, and I always preferred female attention. That was something Mycroft had told me I would need to get over if I wanted to make it through life without being made a fool of left and right. "Women will destroy you if you allow them" he'd told me that day he cornered me in my room and scolded me for being so close to Lillian._

_There were no flowers in the house right now._

_She was quiet for a while. I started to slip out from beneath her. "I'm going to go get father."_

_"No, let him sleep. Let him sleep for one night. He won't be able to do anything for me."_

_"He should be here." I whispered into her hair._

_She shook her head weakly, "I wish he hadn't already lost someone. I wish you hadn't...I wish I was your mother."_

_With those heartfelt words, that she had kept to herself until this moment, she stilled._

_"Cecily?_

_Nothing._

_I stood shakily and looked down at her for a bit. I felt sedated. My hand moved to my mouth, absently rubbing my cheek as I panicked internally. I finally rolled her over gently, her body as limp as Lillian's old cloth dolls. I pressed my palm to her chest and felt only stillness._

_I kneeled on the bed next to her, watching the stillness of her chest, waiting foolishly for the heavy rising of falling of breath. I kissed the tip of her thumb, and then the hollow of her throat, where her heartbeat used to rest. _

_I ran from the room, though it felt as if I could not reach the door fast enough. I needed a drink. I made it halfway down the stairs, gripping the banister and stumbling more than actually walking. I stopped when I heard a faint sound. Lillian stood in the shadow by the library door, clutching onto the table that housed the pale bust of Socrates that my father had placed there; the only gaudy thing in the whole house._

_She stared at me. I opened my mouth to say her name and tasted salt. She ran from me, weeping into a fold of her robe._

_I stood stupidly._

_My mind needed to take over. Things would have to be done and drinking was not one of the priorities. I debated going after Lillian but fear stopped me. I was such a coward._

_I made my way back up to the second landing._

_My nose had started running, feeling pinched and tight with controlled emotion. I stood outside my father's door, wiping my face with my sleeve for a bit before knocking softly._

_My father had been a wreck after the death of my mother. Mycroft had been too cold for comfort and I was far too young and distraught to provide any solace to him. I did not wish to tell him he had lost someone else; and that for the second time, I would be the one who had been by their side as they'd passed._

_Footsteps approached the door faster than I expected. It creaked open and he peered out at me with sleepy but not sleep-ridden eyes. He had his spectacles on and I knew he had been reading the Bible._

_"I know you are not here to tell me something bad." He stated, as if saying it made it true. "She would have told you not to wake me."_

_"She did."_

_He shut the door in my face, consumed with irrational grief, and left me to burst into tears for the first time since I was seven._

_That night was the first time in three years that she entered my room. The material of her nightdress pulled across her chest as she settled onto the mattress. I wasn't in bed; sitting at the bow window, watching the rain splash down my windowsill._

_Her crying cut through me and I went to her; it wasn't a choice really, just as it had never been before._

_We both remain above the covers, as I settle myself gently next to her. She rests the bottom of her cold feet against the tops of mine. I can feel her radiating skin, broken only by one faint scar. I kiss her, everywhere about her face and neck, feeling lost in the folds of her memories, as though they were my own. The two sides of my souls war with one another; frost or fire...that deep, dark ice that settled near my mind or that white, roaming fire that surged from my heart to my stomach._

_She lets out a strangled sob as I kiss her shoulder. The rain gets heavier through the liquid night, pounding against the glass of my windowpane as her eyes shine with grief and something akin to recognition. She snuggles into my arms, the remains of her hurt blowing away _

_At least, for the night. _


End file.
